


All That We See Or Seem

by keatches



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Genius James T. Kirk, Growing Up Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, M/M, Meeting in dreams, Slow Burn, Soulmates, T'hy'la, Tarsus IV, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24699631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keatches/pseuds/keatches
Summary: “You seem to be quite skilled in terraforming your dreams.” Spock observes, walking bare-footed on the ground as he moves towards the side of the farm house, the silken robes that Jim assumes are some kind of Vulcan sleepwear swishing around his ankles.“‘Cause it’s lonely. So I’ve had lots of practice.” Jim's bright blue eyes tell Spock that he's pleased at the compliment, but the way his shoulders slump suggests a different tale. It doesn't take too long before Jim's lips juts into a pout. He observes the younger boy with mild curiosity. “Because you’re never around.”“I am aware of the universal culture of a ‘dream mate’, and I can only apologize for my absence.” Spock hesitates before he explains, “In Vulcan, we call it t’hy’la. Our customs towards dream mates are different."The six times Jim meets Spock in his sleep. The one time he's wide awake.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 80
Kudos: 647





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't know how well-received this idea is going to be but here it goes! just love the idea of jim and spock knowing each other since they were children, and having to overcome spock's vulcan-ness and his inability to dream. good thing he's half human though! and of course i changed some things about t'hy'la to fit the story.
> 
> the title is taken from the legend himself edgar allan poe's poem 'a dream within a dream'. but of course that's obvious to some of you!
> 
> if there are any inconsistencies with star trek lore just bear with me,, i tried so hard to make it all align but some things just don't end up the way you want it to!! okay enough of me enjoy the fic!

Four year old Jim has never seen his dream mate. It’s a regular topic of discussion his mother liked to bring up, always asking him if he saw someone in his dreams yet, ever had any company when he explored the stars in his sleep. Jim couldn’t give her any other answer but the shake of his head. But four year old Jim isn’t stupid. He knows what dream mates are, even if his mom didn’t think it was time to give him that talk yet. He’s nearly finished the middle school biology course he’s downloaded on his PADD, after all. So he knows why his mother makes that sad smile, wrinkling the edges of her lips in a way that makes her look much older than she is. She says, _that’s okay, Jimmy, you’ll see someone one day_ , and pretends not to see him as he peers up questioningly. 

Four year old Jim is _far_ from stupid. He knows what his mother sees when she looks at his messy blonde hair and his blue eyes, the way he’s too loud and too smart, too reckless and bold, like he has _George Kirk_ written all over his forehead. He knows she’s thinking about his father. 

So he leaves her to sulk in her room, and it’s his turn to pretend like he doesn’t see her pull out a fresh bottle of wine. Jim doesn’t really understand why his mother keeps asking the question, or talks to him at all really, seeing how it just makes her sad. There’s a lot of things that makes Jim sad, and he avoids them all the time. Like broccoli. And the sun when it’s too hot. Perhaps, he thinks with his lips pursed as he returns to his room, PADD clutched under his arm, that there are some greater sad things that you just can’t avoid.

Jim pads quietly into his room and jumps onto his bed. It’s just after dinner and Sammy left to his friend Peter’s house for a sleepover. Jim tried to persuade him to stay so he could play starships with him, pointing out the fact that Sammy had just sucker punched Peter last week so he can’t really like him all that much. But the horrified look his mother shot him just made his brother run out the house even faster. Jim eyes the starships lying forlornly on the floor- the Farragut, the Defiant, and a couple of mangled-looking Klingon Bird-of-Preys- and sighs.

Sometimes Jim thinks it’s unfair that he isn’t even allowed to go to school yet. Between his penchant for zoning out for hours on end on his PADD and living in the literal middle of nowhere, he doesn’t really meet many people. Not going to school doesn’t help with that. People find him weird, Sammy tells him, too loud and eager and annoying. Jim just blows a raspberry, picking a subject to exercise on his PADD. As soon as an equation pops up on his screen, he’s already writing down an answer. Jim just needs practice making friends, that’s all. He couldn’t solve any engineering questions when he was three, but he practiced and he learned and he got so good at it he’s practically better than Sammy! He’s sure he can make friends. It can't be any harder than getting past that warp core simulator. 

Jim purses his lips when a more difficult question pops up, giving himself a few seconds to re-examine the equation before scrawling something down. Who cares, anyway? Jim doesn’t need anybody. He’s so much better off on his own! What if his friends thought engineering was lame? What if they thought his starships were stupid and childish and wouldn’t let him as play the Farragut? Seeing how much Sammy fights with his friends and his mom cry over every little thing that reminds him of his father, relationships really can’t be all that great. Jim presses his stylus a little bit too hard on the screen as he underlines his answer, grinning proudly. He’s already so good at many things, it must not be fair to the world if he’s good at making friends, too. 

It does get really lonely in his dreams sometimes, though.

He drifts into sleep somewhere between question twenty-six and thirty-five, pushing the PADD carelessly aside as he buries his face into his pillow. A half-awake part of him looks forward to being able to see the stars again, but simultaneously dreads the cold dissonance of being alone in his dreamscape. Like his subconscious knows that somebody else is supposed to be there, a missing cog in the machine that makes his sleep restless. The beige walls of his bedroom fades slowly, like sand slipping through fingers, and the next thing he knows he's opening his eyes and he’s back to where he always is. Sprawled on top of the hood of his dad’s Chevy Corvette, grinning up at the swirling galaxy above him, so close he could reach out and grab a planet from its orbit and throw it halfway across-

“This is simply illogical.”

Jim bolts upright at the sound of another voice in his head. It’s been so silent for so long in here that the words sound inescapably _loud_. He swivels around, looking for the source of the interruption, and there’s an older boy just one feet to his left, sitting stiffly on top of the glistening hood like he doesn’t know how to hold himself, brown eyes completely stoic if not for the slightly surprised look he tries to hide beneath it. Like Jim had yanked his dream away from him. Which he might have done. He has dark, onyx hair styled into an impossibly precise looking bowl cut. With his head turned up towards the sky, Jim could see his pointy ears, the tips of it just slightly emerald. 

“You’re a _vulcan_ !” Jim blurts. The boy turns to look at him, even _more_ startled, and Jim adds, just to be a little more polite, “Who are you?”

The vulcan’s eyes are cold, features devoid of emotion, the points of his eyebrows angled upwards so that he always looks angry. Jim almost cowers beneath his gaze, intimidating and all too serious for a boy his age. He’s never seen someone look so blank. Nevertheless, the stranger cocks his head to the side, as if assessing the situation, before he raises his right hand in a ta’al.

“My name is Spock, son of Sarek. I am indeed vulcan.” he says, voice monotone, “You have grown much since I last saw you. Which is only logical, of course.”

“You’ve seen me _before_?” Jim’s grin is hardly containable now. It nearly splits his face in half as he scoots closer towards the boy, who almost tumbles off the car trying to avoid him, “I don’t remember you!”

“Of course not, you were only an infant. I hypothesized approximately thirteen terran months old.” 

Jim’s eyes are wide, then hastily remembers to return the ta’al, albeit clumsily and barely readable, “Wait ‘til my mommy hears about this.”

“I, too, will have to inform my parents of this development.” Spock says, but with a slight divot in his brows, “I should not be dreaming. Vulcans do not dream.”

“Is that why I never see you?” Jim deflates, then remembers, “I’m James Tiberius Kirk. People call me Jimmy.”

“Affirmative, James.” 

Jim blows a raspberry. “At least call me Jim. My mommy only calls me James if I’m in trouble.” Jim frowns. He’s probably been Pavloved with fear just from hearing his birth name. “Does that mean I’ll never see you again, Spock?”

“It is unlikely that you will, once I learn to better control my emotions. However I cannot deliver the definite conclusion that we will never meet again.” Spock looks around. The galaxy is moving rapidly above them, like they’re going on warp speed, and a nebula comes into view. “Fascinating. It appears that we are beyond the atmosphere even though we are grounded.”

“Yeah. This is what my dreams look like. I really like space. Sometimes I change it up though.” Jim closes his eyes and feels the cool hood of the car melt away from under his palms, replaced with the feeling of soft, downy grass. They’re in his backyard now, all green flower bushes and decorative trees, pretty weeds growing in small patches of light. Here, the sunshine is perpetual and unnaturally bright, like they’re stuck in a never ending summer. The Kirks’ big, white house stands to the side, proud against the heat and the nothingness that surrounds them.

“You seem to be quite skilled in terraforming your dreams.” Spock observes, walking bare-footed on the ground as he moves towards the side of the farm house, the silken robes that Jim assumes are some kind of Vulcan sleepwear swishing around his ankles.

“‘Cause it’s lonely. So I’ve had lots of practice.” Jim's bright blue eyes tell Spock that he's pleased at the compliment, but the way his shoulders slump suggests a different tale. It doesn't take too long before Jim's lips juts into a pout. He observes the younger boy with mild curiosity. “Because you’re never around.”

“I am aware of the universal culture of a ‘dream mate’, and I can only apologize for my absence.” Spock hesitates before he explains, “In Vulcan, we call it t’hy’la. Our customs towards dream mates are different."

“Tuh-high-lah?” Jim warbles the word, picking at a daisy a little ways away from his right hand, “I speak some Vulcan, but I’ve never heard of that before.”

“Indeed?” Spock raises a pointed brow, “Tor du ken-tor nash-veh?” _Do you understand what I’m saying?_

“Ha!” Jim answers, _yes_ , turning his nose up, the little flower in his hand forgotten, “Nash-veh ri tor ti. Nash-veh mokuhlek stariben Vuhlkansu.” _I am not lying. I can speak Vulcan._

“Fascinating.” both of Spock’s eyebrows disappear into his bangs this time, “Your accent is quite acceptable. What is your current age?”

“I’m four.” Jim pouts, “People think four year olds are stupid and don’t know anything, but I’m a genius!”

“Indeed?” Spock hums, “I did not think Terran children received formal education until the age of six.”

“That’s exactly why.” Jim muttered, but immediately turned back to Spock with a smile, “So tell me more about tee-hydra!”

“T’hy’la.” Spock corrects, “It is considered one of the most sacred and rare bonds a vulcan can possess. It can, of course, be a platonic bond, such in the form of companionship and brotherhood. But it is most often referred to as a romantic one. Much like what you believe on Earth. However, this bond is more accessible to humans and other species capable of dreaming. Vulcans require meditation, abiding by the laws of Surak, so we do not return to our more savage and primitive ways. A result of this meditation is the lack of dreams. Therefore, t’hy’la bonds are difficult to maintain, and classed as rare and unnecessary.”

“If vulcans don’t dream at all then how come you do?” Jim shot back. He plays with the daisy in his hand, twirling it between his fingers.

“I am, regrettably, half-vulcan. I am not as in control of my emotions.” Spock’s shoulders droop at this, as if he’s momentarily forgotten and rudely reminded, “My mother is human.”

“That’s great!” Jim yells, clambering up from his spot beneath the tree to run up to Spock’s side, bouncing on the balls of his feet, “So you’ll dream after all!”

“Negative.” Spock shakes his head, stepping away. Jim lands back on the pads of his feet, smile dropping. “I am going to be a true vulcan. Once I am old enough to perform a kolinahr, a purging of all emotions, I will never dream again. We will never meet.”

“You’re _mean_.” Jim sticks his bottom lip out, “Why don’t you want to dream with me? Do you hate me?”

“You must understand, Jim, trying to uphold such a difficult bond is simply illogical. Vulcans require meditation to uphold the ways of Surak, which we need to live. Dream mates are not essential for survival. Most t’hy’la couples, due to interplanetary distances, live lightyears away. A relationship most difficult to sustain. Therefore, one need simply outweighs the other.” Spock explains slowly this time, a flash of fear evident on his face once he detects the tears forming in the human’s eyes. He has not seen such emotion in a being ever since his own mother cried when Spock disappeared to perform his kahs-wan, “All vulcan children are to be bonded at the age of seven. Vulcan physiology does not make it possible to wait for a dream mate. Our minds and bodies simply do not allow it. I will be bonded in a few months.”

“But I thought-” Jim’s tears spill this time, wet and hot on his cheeks. Spock takes a tentative step towards him, “What if I can visit you on Vulcan? Then you’ll dream with me, right?”

“You would still have to go back to Earth, Jim.” Spock crouches slightly to match his height, putting an awkward hand on the younger boy’s shoulder, “It would not be logical to leave your family.”

“But its so lonely here!” Jim stomps his feet, but leans into Spock’s touch nonetheless. The vulcan senses all things at once through their brief contact; anger, loss, frustration. Fear. It seems as though Jim is as powerful at projecting his emotions as Spock is liable to pick it up due to his enhanced telepathy. Spock’s hand drops as though he’s been burned. “It’s empty and nothing happens. Just like mommy’s dreams. Mommy’s always sad and I don’t want to be sad.”

“What happened to your mother’s dream mate?”

“Dad died when I was born.” Jim rubs his tears away, and frowns when he feels soft petals brush against his cheek. Oh. He’s still holding onto the daisy.

“You are James Tiberius Kirk. Of course.” Spock nods solemnly. “Son of George Kirk.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t wanna talk about him. People always talk about him.” Jim rubs his eyes once more and sniffs. Spock sees that his big, blue eyes are still rimmed with red, but the pout disappears and his face smoothens forcefully. It seems as though the boy is trying to pretend that he did not cry at all. 

“Very well. We shall not.” Spock amends, willing to do anything to prevent the boy from having another irrational emotional outburst. He quickly thinks of something that would appease him. “Since we may never meet again, allow me to show you a memory.”

“We’re going to your dream now?” Jim’s eyes widen, impossibly ice blue, tears still clumping his long lashes. Spock marvels at how quickly the human shifts his emotions, “That’s so cool. I’ve never seen another person’s dream before.”

“I am aware.” Spock replies, and closes his eyes, “Allow me to…”

The landscape shifts in front of them. Jim clutches the daisy close to his chest, stepping closer so that he’s halfway behind Spock, the taller boy’s body shielding him from the beating sun, much more unforgiving than any type of hot summer Jim could even imagine on Earth. The atmosphere heats rapidly, and Jim’s limbs feel heavier. They are on some kind of mountainous terrain, the soil more red than ochre, pebbly and slanted, but not so dangerous that you would slip off. There is no vegetation, just rock and sparse sand that dusts the top of the monolithic stones like brown sugar. Jim understands, he wouldn’t want to grow here if he was a plant either.

Spock’s eyes open, the dreamscape appropriately built, and the memory begins.

Dream Spock emerges from the curve of one rock, creeping up upon the terrain, the hunch of his small back barely seen from where they stood. Accompanying him is a cat of some kind, the size of a lion, if not larger. Jim can see the hard sinews of muscles along its back, shifting under brown fur whenever it takes one laboured step after another. It has fangs protruding from either sides of his jowls, though one is yellowed and broken off. Jim can tell that it was old, and under closer inspection as they come closer, the lush brown fur is mottled with beige from age.

“This is Vulcan. And that is I-Chaya.” Spock explains as they observe behind a sizeable boulder. Jim is clutching onto the back of his robes, and the fear that Spock senses through the touch is palpable. “He was my pet sehlat. Not unlike a terran mountain cat, only much larger. There is no need to be afraid of him.”

Dream Spock has a small hand on I-Chaya’s shoulder, unclear which one is guiding who through the mountain. It seems that the vulcan is saying something, small lips reciting some kind of speech.

“How old were you?” Jim asks, the fist he has clenched into Spock’s robes relaxing,

“I am seven years old. This only happened a few months ago.”

The boy and the cat continue moving, and soon they are almost directly in front of them, the sound of feet and paws hitting rocks steady and rhythmic. Jim wants to say that it’s too hot here, that he can’t imagine moving to Vulcan for Spock, after all, before he hears the low growl of something in the distance. I-Chaya’s ears prick, its large head turning west-ward, towards the cluster of rocks embedded there, but Dream Spock still hasn’t noticed anything amiss, the vulcan continuing to walk and recite. At the indication of his sehlat’s hesitance, Dream Spock simply tugs at its fur, and I-Chaya moves. 

“I was foolish.” Spock whispers, his brown eyes following each and every one of the cat’s movements, something sad and regretful shining in his eyes, “I was anxious to finish my kahs-wan. I did not care what I-Chaya tried to tell me. He was not supposed to come in the first place.”

“What’s happening?” Jim’s voice is small, nothing like the boisterous little boy Spock met at the start of their dream. The growls get louder, and this time, Dream Spock stops as well, and I-Chaya assumes a protective stance, curling in front of the vulcan’s small body. The feeling of horror that the dream brings is just as palpable as the heat that oozes from the rocks. Something natural. Something that feels as though it comes with the terrain.

Spock shakes his head, but his eyes are unwavering. “You might not desire to watch, Jim.”

Before Jim could ask again, he sees the creature. Still growling, it stretches its long body and jumps atop of one of the elevated rocks on their path. It is bigger than I-Chaya, and of a different build. The creature reminds Jim of an overgrown sabertooth tiger, but its face is much more slender, its fur thicker and denser, colored a striking emerald. Jim could see the geometric patterns of gold that trace the length of its spine, trickling down to its sides. The rays of sunlight frame its form on top of the rocks, fanning across its back. It raises a black-clawed paw and snarls. I-Chaya growls, and Dream Spock is clutching onto his sehlat’s fur as if willing it not to strike. 

“Le-matya.” Spock says, voice low. Jim feels himself shiver as he presses himself into Spock’s side.

This is not a creature meant to blend into its surroundings, not meant to observe and wait. And so it doesn’t. With one last, reverberating warning, it pounces. 

I-Chaya, old as he seems, moves quickly and powerfully. The hand that Dream Spock has buried into his fur is quickly torn away, and the vulcan runs to hide behind a rock, just a few feet to their side. I-Chaya and the le-matya meet halfway in the air, tumbling to the ground in a mess of claws and fur. There is much resistance on both sides, an equal force of push and pull, but I-Chaya’s bones are old and he grows weary fast. Before the fight could mean anything more than a wrestle, the le-matya sinks its black claws into I-Chaya’s side, the wound gaping, splattering deep red blood onto already deep red rocks. Dream Spock stifles a cry, but the le-matya’s ears are sharp, and its gaze switches quickly from the panting sehlat to the rock to their side. 

“My sehlat and I acquired a shallow bond in our early childhood. It is why he listens to my commands, usually.” Spock’s face twists, as if in pain, and unconsciously plants a hand on his side, “I could feel an echo of his pain.”

Just then, a figure emerges from the same rock that the cat took its entrance, and determinedly launches himself on the le-matya’s back. Before the creature could throw him off, the man’s hand finds purchase in the dip past the creature’s shoulders, presses his fingers there, and the le-matya’s roar dies out, its figure slumping, thudding loudly onto the ground. 

“My cousin, Selek.” Spock says as the vulcan raises himself from the le-matya’s body, already making his way towards Dream Spock with a cautious pace. “I have suspicions that my father had instructed him to follow me, though he will never admit it.”

Jim watches with wide eyes as Selek crouches down to Dream Spock’s height, holding out his hand tentatively, saying something that they could have heard if this was reality. But all the noises in the dream have stopped. No wind, no shifting of sand, no heavy sehlat pants. A mental block. Jim is still able to see tears in Dream Spock’s eyes, and when Selek extends both his arms the young vulcan launches himself into his cousin’s embrace, shaking and sobbing.

“You’re lucky he _was_.” Jim’s bottom lip juts out again, blonde eyebrows furrowed. He looks up at Spock, who is determinedly looking away from his past self, as though ashamed of the emotional display. Jim’s lip quivers and he wraps his arms around Spock’s middle, not letting go even when he could feel the vulcan stiffen under his embrace. “You could have died!”

“But I did not, Jim, because of I-Chaya.” Spock says, and rests a hand on Jim’s shaking shoulder. Regret pierces through him, “I should not have shown you the memory. You are too young.”

“No!” Jim says indignantly, drawing away from the hug. He wipes his eyes with his fists again and crosses his arms. He thinks about throwing a fit, but instead remembers the cat and peers beyond the boulder to look at the sehlat, still lying there patiently, wound deep, “What happened to I-Chaya?”

“A le-matya’s claws are venomous. We brought him to a vulcan healer, but by then his body has taken too much of the toxins, damaging his functions. The healer offered me two choices: to let him live, but in agony, or to give him a peaceful death.” Spock explained, voice unsteady. “I chose the latter. My parents buried him in the ground outside our house, where he remains now.”

“That’s the right thing to do.” Jim nods, looking at the ground in thought for a few seconds before meeting Spock’s eyes, “Can we see him?”

“He is right there, Jim.” Spock points to the sehlat, 

“No, I mean, to see his grave. Where you buried him.” Jim rolls his eyes,

Spock thinks upon it for a moment before conceding. “Very well.”

He closes his eyes and the scene changes again, the sound of nature once more flooding Jim’s ears as if it had never left. The wind is back, albeit not as strongly as before, and they are standing amongst a well-kept desert garden, filled with lots of terran cacti that Jim recognized, as well as some vulcan ones that he didn’t. Right in front of him, just a few feet from the tips of his toes, is a sleek jade headstone, embedded into the ground. It reads: _I-Chaya, a faithful companion_.

“Mother insisted that we wrote a brief description on the stone.” Spock explains, as if embarrassed, “She says that it is a Terran custom.”

Jim smiles at that, and wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, well, this is also a terran custom.” 

He steps forward and squats in front of the tombstone, uncurling his hand to reveal the daisy he had kept from his dreamscape. It’s all withered and bruised and sticky now, but this is a dream and Jim can do whatever he wants, so with a bat of his eyelashes the daisy is as fresh and bright as ever. In fact, there are several daisies, linked and knotted at the stalks to form a loose circle. Jim’s small hands grab it carefully, and set it on top of the headstone like a crown. It droops a little once he lets it go, but Jim gets up and smiles nonetheless. 

“We have a memorial plate for my dad too. We didn’t get to bury him, though, since he was blown up in space and all.” Jim purses his lips and turns to Spock, whose expression is wholly unreadable, though the divot in his brows are there again. “Now come on, we have to say something too.”

Jim waits until he can feel Spock’s presence to his left, both of them pressed side to side as Jim takes a deep breath, like he’s bracing himself. He grins, “Thank you I-Chaya, for being the best cat _ever_.”

Jim looks up expectantly at Spock, who clears his throat and looks down at the grave he’s examined so many times, always wanting to say something, to honor his only friend in a way that mattered. It would be un-vulcan of him to do so, to let his emotions determine his actions. But this is a dream, and vulcans aren’t meant to have one anyway, so he might as well. 

Spock lays a hand on I-Chaya’s headstone, and could only bring himself to say softly, as if he fears the words, “Thank you, for saving my life.”

Jim shifts closer to him, taking his free hand, chubby fingers holding him just above his wrist. “S'ti th'laktra.” _I grieve with thee_.

Spock looks at him in surprise, even though the words don’t flow quite as fluently on the young boy’s tongue. “Thank you.”

Jim grins up at Spock, chancing a look at the blazing sky before he looks away and rubs at his eyes. The planet Vulcan is just like its language, harsh and heavy and difficult to get used to. “Why did you show me this memory anyway? I bet you have a lot of cooler ones.”

Spock turns to Jim now, no longer facing I-Chaya’s grave, and allows himself a few seconds to stare at Jim’s chubby, rosy face, beads of sweat trickling past his straw-blonde fringe, blue eyes looking up at him with unbidden curiosity. He could feel the pulse of a hundred things through their point of contact; annoyance, dread, affection, a myriad of questions. The boy is so human that it frightens him.

“It is because, Jim, this is an example of when you must choose the most logical option. It is simply, as you say, ‘the right thing to do’.” Jim’s wide blue eyes at least appear a bit more understanding, despite the edge of protest Spock sees in them. The older boy looks away, “However much you do not wish to.”

Jim’s bottom lip juts out again, “I’m gonna miss you Spock.” His little hand tightens around his wrist,

“And I you, Jim.” 

Just like that, Jim is wrenched awake from sleep, feeling sweat beaded on his forehead as though he was actually there, in Vulcan, with _Spock_ . Jim’s face slowly spreads into a gleeful grin as he jumps out of bed. The sun had just started to rise, he could see its orange glare from his windows. He had forgotten to draw his blinds yesterday, but it doesn’t matter. Jim dreamt, and for the first time in all his life, he saw his _dream mate_ . He _has_ a dream mate. His name is _Spock_. Jim runs to his mother’s room, the patter of his footsteps the only sound in the house this early in the morning, and jumps onto her bed, shaking her awake.

“Mommy!” Jim’s small hands grab onto her arm, “Mommy! _Mom_!”

“What? What is it Jimmy?” Winona sits upright, panic in her sleep-filled eyes, dark around the corners from a hangover. She looks into her son’s grinning face and, somehow, that launches her into further panic. Jim’s triumphs are rarely well-placed, “What did you do?”

“Mommy, I met someone in my dreams!” Jim yells, 

“Oh.” Winona’s face turns blank as she registers his words, then a slow, sleepy smile overtakes her features. “Oh! Honey, that’s great!”

“His name’s Spock. He’s seven years old!” Jim announces, smiling, and then a sudden realization hits him. The corners of his mouth turn slack, and his blue eyes look impossibly sad. He’s probably never going to see him again, _ever_. “But he’s a vulcan, mommy.”

Winona makes the association quickly, and she lets out a painful sigh. Her eyebrows pinch together, lost in what to do. She knows how lonely Jim is, even though he never says it. She knows how much he longs for company.

“Oh honey…” She says as she gathers her small son into her arms before she could see the tears forming in his big blue eyes,

It seems that the Kirks will always have bad luck with lovers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's the first chapter!! i hope you all got a glimpse into what the whole dreamsharing thing is like, and god how i wish this actually exists. the narrating style will progress as both boys get older, so don't worry if you're thinking that it sounds a bit childish right now! we'll be exploring jim's home life, the dreaded tarsus iv, spock's bond with t'pring, and some other stuff!! so stay tuned!!
> 
> kudos, comments and shares are very much appreciated!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little warning sign here for mild descriptions of child abuse! it's not much, most of it just describing the aftermath, but it doesnt hurt to know. enjoy the chapter!

Jim is eight years old the next time it happens.

His dreams no longer start in space, laying on the Corvette as though it was a spaceship, watching the galaxy streak above him. No, these days, he materializes inside his farm house, the whole building devoid of people, just as Jim wishes it would be. The hallways are longer and the rooms are darker, and sometimes Jim swears that he could feel his father’s presence between the walls, beneath his fingertips. 

In the corridors, the shadows behave with a mind of its own. They take sinuous shapes against the white paint, the form of raised fists or an open hand or a too-small body, tumbling to the hardwood floor. The figures are gone as soon as they come, though, switching from blobs to bodies as swift as wind, a flash of pictures. Most of the time, Jim just sinks into the floor and tucks his head between his knees, pushing palms against his ears when the wind picks up, quick and powerful enough that he could hear it speak- the rumble of yells from a voice he wishes he didn’t find familiar, of loud crying and slaps and thuds. But this time Jim rounds a corner he swears wasn’t there the last time he checked, if not to explore it then to run and replace the ache in his chest with adrenaline or exertion or something,  _ anything- _ only to slam into a body that shouldn’t be there at all and he looks up and he’s met with-

“Spock.” Jim breathes,

Spock catches him by the shoulders, a full head taller than him now, maybe even more, his face a little more defined. He’s still all hard eyes and sharp lips but with a steadier jaw, a more confident line on his shoulders. Jim knows that he’s eleven now. He thinks of his dream mate on every birthday, always keeping in mind of their age difference like any of it mattered, like he could somehow track the other boy’s milestones and gather them to his chest and make a person out of what little he knows. Like it could bring him back. 

When Spock looks at him, it’s with horror hidden behind oak brown eyes, and Jim realizes with a startle that even at four years old, even when they only knew each other for a couple of hours, he could read Spock in a way he’s never been able to read another person before. Spock looks him up and down, his lips parting in surprise the more his eyes move. The vulcan’s fingers clutch his shoulders tightly, digging into the threads of his sweater.

“What has happened to you?” Spock’s voice is urgent, and when Jim doesn’t speak, Spock allows himself to look frantically at their surroundings, at the shadows on the walls that move too fast, escapes his view. “What is this place?”

Jim wants to laugh. He feels it bubble in his throat. In the four years they haven’t met, where did it all go wrong? What happened? Jim couldn’t tell you a damn thing.

“If it isn’t the man of my dreams.” He teases, a smile creeping to his chapped lips. Jim knows how ugly it must look, how malicious it must seem.

“Who did this to you, Jim?” Spock shakes his shoulders lightly, eyes wide. He lifts a hand, as if wanting to touch his face, before he aborts the movement and plants it back on his shoulder. “You must tell me what happened.”

“Just for you to disappear on me again?” Jim is all too aware about the crack in his voice, the tears edging his eyes that betray the weary bravado he’s learned to place onto himself. Spock’s face turns grim. “I don’t have to explain a thing to you. You’re just going to leave. Just like everybody else.”

“Are you not aware of how you look?” Spock hisses. At Jim’s blank stare, he materializes a mirror at the wave of his hand, propped against the wall, and twists Jim around by his shoulders to look.

It’s the same old Jim. He hasn’t aged as prettily as Spock did, wasn’t more handsome or even more cute since being four years old. But there was one thing they both shared- the innocence they had framing their soft features, the way their eyes were naturally wide with curiosity and wonder, was gone. Jim’s hair was no longer slightly long and soft, lemon blonde and floppy against his forehead. It was cropped too close to his skull and dirt blonde- some kind of harried haircut Frank decided was cheaper than paying for a barber. God knows Winona isn’t here to cut his hair in the bathroom anymore. His skin is sallow, unhealthy, and they cling onto his bones and the hollow of his eye sockets. He was slightly underweight, more malnourished than anything. He looked ashen and rueful just by default.

Jim knows what Spock is talking about, if not for any of the more muted reasons stated above. He’s talking about the swollen cut on his lip, sore and angry about being half-way healed only to be ruptured again and again, always on the same spot like it was a personal race between his platelets and Frank’s fists to see who would win. The bruises on his cheeks, his arms, his legs, all on different stages of healing, some deep purple and some an aching green-yellow, small or large depending on the kind of day. And then the little cuts where Frank had scuffed him with his boot too hard or knocked him against the sharp edge of a table, or a counter, or a chair. Jim doesn’t even bother to map their whereabouts anymore, just knows that it’s there when they start to itch and sting as they scab. Jim looks at his reflection, this pathetic excuse of an eight year old, and wants to puke.

He shrugs, twists his body so he could see a fat bruise behind his arm, and laughs, “So I’m a whole lot ugly, even in my dreams.” 

Jim feels a ripple of despair through he and Spock’s contact, something he never understood when he was younger but made sense of after finding out that vulcans are touch-telepaths, and that S'chn T’gai Spock, Ambassador Sarek’s son, is especially proficient at it. It’s so strong that it fills his bones, and Jim almost wrenches himself free.

“I am so sorry, Jim.” Spock says, because it’s all he  _ can _ say, and then gathers Jim into an embrace, so filled with worry and fear and sorrow that it smashes through all of Jim’s barriers, “Forgive me.”

Jim blinks once, twice, before a long-repressed sob wrenches itself out of his tiny, rattling chest.

The tears fall down his face with no holds barred, so many of them that they’re no longer drops, just twin waterfalls down his flushed cheeks. Jim buries his face into Spock’s chest, still wearing that damn vulcan silk robe, and allows his fingers to curl themselves into the sleeves of his forearms. He’s not letting go. This time, Spock  _ can’t _ leave him. And maybe the fact that Jim is so attached to some boy he met one night when he was four says a whole lot more about Jim than it does Spock, the fact that he replays another person’s memory in his head every night before he sleeps, just to remind himself that the universe made a person just for him, even though that person doesn’t want him back. The echo of Spock’s words;  _ It is simply, as you say, ‘the right thing to do’. However much you do not wish to _ . But at least Spock is  _ here _ now, and that’s even more than what Jim could ask of from his mom. 

“Please, tell me what happened.” Spock says softly, tightening his arms around the boy once the words made him sob even louder, “In your own time.”

Jim takes a few big gulps of air, not realizing how his crying has turned into hiccups. The words leave his mouth in staggers. “Two years ago Mommy met this guy Frank. He was okay at first.” 

Apparently, that was all he had to say. Spock is smart. Jim could practically see him piece things together, the vulcan gears turning quickly in his head before the younger boy could even find the words to describe it. His eyes have always been placid, but now the chocolate hue is replaced with darkness. Almost black. But Spock lets him continue.

“Mommy left on the Bradbury a few months ago, told Frank to take care of me and Sammy. She’s not coming back for another five years.” Jim cries, small hands coming up to rub at his face, “I tried to be a good boy. I  _ really _ did. I always did what Frank told me to do, clean the house and wash the dishes and come back home before five. But he always gets so  _ mad _ .”

“Jim, it is not your fault. It could never be your fault.” Spock says adamantly, and pulls away so that he could see the younger boy’s shining blue eyes, “Has this Frank ever been on any intoxicants?”

“What, you mean like alcohol?” Jim says, then thinks. Yes. Too much of it. He gets the most handsy after a few beers. “Yeah. And drugs too, sometimes.”

“And your mother is not aware of this behaviour?”

“He was never like this when she was here. He even used to buy me toys.” Jim sighs, “I’ve tried telling Mommy when the Bradbury lets her call me. She says he’s just sad that she’s gone. Just tells me to be a good boy and listen to him. I don’t think she believes me.”

“His actions have no contingency on your behaviour. That would be simply illogical.” Spock assures him, “I have the utmost confidence that you are and have always been a ‘good boy’.”

Jim laughs wetly, and he sees the edges of Spock’s lips quirk up in response. The younger boy sniffles and shrugs.

“It’s okay. You can’t help me anyway. You’re literally lightyears away and I’ll probably never see you again after this.” 

“Affirmative.” Spock replies softly. There’s an edge of guilt there that Jim doesn’t want to hear.

“Why are you here anyway?” Jim challenges glumly, “I thought vulcans can’t dream or whatever.”

“I do not know.” Spock’s reply is regretful, pensive as he stares at the ground, “My best hypothesis is that my mind sensed yours reaching out to me due to your emotionally compromised state. I was meditating, and I was simply transported here.”

Jim feels a blossom of guilt and shame in his chest, which Spock reciprocates with a soothing balm of assurance. “Do other vulcans do that too? Feel that pull or whatever?”

“Negative. Perhaps it is due to my hybrid physiology.” Spock looks at him, not in any way accusing, just curious, “Perhaps it is because you feel very strongly, as all humans do.”

“So, still no to being dream mates?” Jim asks, head cocked to the side and his voice full of mirth, no true meaning to his words at all.

Spock shakes his head, “Negative, Jim. I have already been bonded to another. She, too, could not reach her dream mate before she reached seven years of age, although he is somewhere on Vulcan. Therefore we necessitated a bond.” Spock looks guiltily at him, “I regret that I can not do anything to help you, Jim.”

“Yes you can.” Jim’s lips split into a grin. Spock lifts a curious eyebrow. “Why don’t you show me another memory? I’m tired of being stuck here by myself.”

“You wish for me to show you another memory?” Spock echoes, rather unvulcan-ly.

“Yeah. Because for the last four years..” Jim hesitated for a moment, but realizes that he probably won’t see Spock ever again, so there’s really nothing to be ashamed of, “I’ve been thinking about your le-matya memory over and over again. I like thinking about you. It makes me feel safe.”

A flutter of warmth fills him through the hand Spock still has on his shoulder. There’s a green tinge on his cheeks, the tips of his ears as he withdraws the touch. The warmth disappears instantly. Before Jim could say anything, to protest or to question what the hell that even  _ was _ , Spock considers the request and nods, “Very well. I shall show you.”

Jim instinctively grabs onto Spock’s arm as the floor dissolves beneath them, dark hardwood floors warping into sleek, grey tiles, the sprawling room dim if not for the light emanating from concave units in the ground. Uniformed people thread through the circles on level ground, faces pensive with vigilance. Cradled in each one of them, a young vulcan stands alone, eyes trained on nothing but a singular point in front of them, hands behind their backs as their small lips move with trained efficiency. Jim’s grip on Spock’s sleeve releases, and he finds himself drawn to one of these pods, the one where he could see a familiar face.

“That’s you!” the younger boy points at an impassive Dream Spock, texts and images alike flashing all around him, “How old were you?”

“Seven. This memory happened mere weeks after, what is to you, our first encounter.” 

Jim drops to his knees by the rim of Dream Spock’s pod, nearly sliding down the smooth walls chasing the planetary projections if Spock didn’t have half a mind to hang onto the scuff of his collar. His blue eyes trace the vestiges of the Milky Way, before it vanishes with a flash and is replaced by equations much too difficult for a boy of seven years, if the boy was not vulcan or named Jim Kirk. This, too, dissolves as Dream Spock answers it without even blinking, and is presented with a paragraph of philosophical text.

“This place is amazing.” Jim’s mouth hangs open, the familiar blue gleam of childlike wonderment alive in his eyes. For a moment, however illogical, Spock thinks he looks four years old again. “Where are we?”

“The Vulcan Learning Academy. The place of study for vulcan youths, before we enroll in the Vulcan Science Academy.” 

The lights in Dream Spock’s pod dim abruptly, as do the others around them, flickering out like fireflies. The overhead bulbs brighten and the vulcan students file out neatly, climbing the stairs along the side of the pod with such poise, as if they hadn’t just recited what would be a terran child’s entire high school education. Jim’s eyes follow Dream Spock, and through the slight brush of Spock’s knuckles against his nape, he could sense the younger boy’s excitement to see Spock’s counterpart at an age similar to his own, imagining that they could have been friends, if Jim was enrolled here. Gods knew he had the brains for it. Spock withdraws his hand before he could accidentally send over a flash of amusement. Endearment.

“Good memory or bad memory?” Jim asks warily, as Dream Spock crouches down to gather his bookbag, tugging it against his chest.

“I believe the correct term is what humans like to refer to as ‘bittersweet’.” Spock replies, watching as three vulcan boys, obviously older and taller than Dream Spock, approaches him.

“Spock.” One of the boys, the tallest and presumably oldest, says in a flat tone. Trepidation rolls over Jim’s shoulders like a strong gust of wind. Emotions from the memory, as ever-present as the sense of smell.

Dream Spock simply rises, turning to face them. If Jim didn’t know better, he would think that the vulcan boy had his nose slightly raised to the air in pride and indignation. “I presume you have prepared new insults for today.”

“Affirmative.” The boy replies, the corner of his lips quirking in a concealed smirk.

Dream Spock simply walks over to them, straight-faced, close enough that he could reach out and grab the other boy’s robes if he wanted to. Jim grins, because according to the shift of emotions in the air, how it’s heavier with impatience, Spock  _ really _ wanted to. 

“This is your thirty-fifth attempt to elicit an emotional response from me.”

“You are neither human nor vulcan and therefore have no place in this universe.” The one on the right hisses. Jim’s blood turns cold, and reflexively retreats from the rim of the pod to step closer to Spock, a hand coming up to lightly brush his forearm. He sends over a wave of disgust and sadness, a surge of broiling rage. Spock replies with raised eyebrows, sending back amusement and assurance.

“Look. He has human eyes. They look sad, don't they?” Another boy taunts. Dream Spock’s face betrays him for a moment, lips slightly parted as if he wants to speak, but wanting to prove them wrong at the same time. He balls his hands into little fists at his side. The slight view of emotion disappears in a single second, and at the lack of response, one of the boys glares.

“Perhaps an emotional response requires physical stimuli.” He scowls,

Without a warning, the boy plants both hands on Dream Spock’s shoulders and pushes, sending him a few steps back, too close to the lip of his pod. Jim angrily steps forward, as if wanting to steady him, or even throw a punch, but Spock places a placating hand around his wrist and he stills. This is a dream, he reminds himself. There’s nothing he can do.

“He’s a traitor, you know. Your father, for marrying  _ her _ .” The same boy says, and Dream Spock’s eyes go wide, with anger or fear or both, “That human  _ whore _ .”

That does it. Something crackles,  _ snaps _ , so suddenly that Jim actually thinks he hears it resound in the dream. Dream Spock’s face fills with so much emotion, something Jim thought could never come out of him, all hateful and bitter and righteous, and lets out an anguished yell. He launches himself onto the oldest boy and shoves him back, so hard that he falls down one of the pods with a dull smack. Jim runs over to the rim, where the rest of the bullies have gathered, watching with equal amounts of horror and fear. A sense of pride blooms in his chest as Dream Spock follows the boy in mindless pursuit.

The boy barely has time to get up as Dream Spock slides down the pod wall, bracing himself with one arm before he lifts a hand, as if to strike, but the boy is quicker this time. Dream Spock gets a face full of fist that knocks him back against the pod, and the boy is onto him, grabbing him by the shoulders and twisting Spock to face him, but Spock hooks a foot around his ankle and  _ twists _ his body. The boy lands on the ground with a resounding thud. Dream Spock puts his legs on either side of the boy’s chest and brings himself down, lands a painful punch. And then another. And  _ another _ . Tears pool into his brown eyes and the cry of exertion that follows each fist turns into anguished sobs. Jim gasps as the air changes, curdling with a valley of emotions that it almost  _ hurts _ . The dream supplies a steady stream of regret, for what he has done. Satisfaction, that comes in great heaps at seeing green blood trickle down the boy’s nose, the same colored bruise that blossoms at his cheeks, the burn on his knuckles. But the greatest is disappointment, because he knows he’s only proven them right.

“That was horrible.” Jim barely wheezes out as he clasps his hands on his knees, trying to regain his breath, as if he was the one throwing the punches. Spock settles a hand on his shoulder. Jim turns his head to meet his steady brown eyes, and sees that so much has changed in four years. “They were  _ horrible _ .”

“I regret the emotional transference that has caused you this distress.” Spock allows a hum of calm through their contact, and Jim’s breathing steadies. “I am aware of how humans are more affected by this, but I did not assume to this extent.”

“I’m glad you showed me.” Jim assures, straightening out his back. The dream blurs in front of them, and he could barely see two vulcan teachers pry Dream Spock off of the boy. A seething rage trickles into the shallow connection. “He got what he deserved.”

“Your hatred towards my offender is palpable, even though you did not experience this memory yourself.” Spock observes, a small divot between his brows, “Are all humans so susceptible to empathy?”

Jim’s face flushes, the tips of his ears a delightful pink. Spock detects waves of embarrassment, affection. “Not really. I guess it’s only if you really care about the person.” he mumbles,

“I am gratified of your fondness, Jim.” Spock replies blandly, but with the way Jim’s face turns up to meet his, the most brilliant smile stretching his lips, one would have thought that Spock had given him the entire galaxy.

“I think I’m waking up.” Jim frowns suddenly, looking down at his blurring hands, the way his fingers move at a staggered pace, as though he was a broken holovid projector. He looks desperately at Spock, who has unknowingly stepped closer, looking at the younger boy with barely-concealed helplessness. Jim’s lips are twisted into an unhappy pout, and for a moment Spock thinks that he will cry again. “Will I ever see you again?”

“Perhaps you will, if your mind pulls at mine once more.” Spock startles when Jim’s semi-permeable hands grasp at his robe-sleeves, fingers digging into the satin-like fabric. He can feel the barely-there transference of grief and fear and the unwillingness to  _ let go _ , practically emanating from the younger boy. Then he remembers the big, empty house. The too-dark shadows on the walls. “Though I do not wish for that to happen, if it would mean that you would be in a... compromised state again.”

“Aw, Spock.” Jim laughs, and the sound rings in echoes, like that of a ghost, “I hope nothing bad happens to you, too.”

“Goodbye, Jim.” Spock says, once he barely feels the fingers in his sleeves,

“Wait!” Jim yells, his voice fading, but his blue eyes make it past the yank of the living world, so stark and bright against the grey of the academy, “Why did you show me that memory?”

“An example-” Spock raises his voice to match the younger boy’s, and he illogically feels himself reaching out to Jim, fingers tightening around the traces of bony wrists he finds there. He projects the sweet feeling of fists connecting to a face, of solid pushes and the sound of a body sliding down a pod and the pride of putting his  _ suus mahna _ training to good use, “-of an illogical form of retribution. Exacting revenge to one’s bullies.”

Jim’s lips quirk into a wicked grin. Spock feels that he would not be forgetting the sight of that any time soon. “Bye, Spock!”

He blinks, and Jim is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i personally really liked writing this chapter :") i hope yall liked it too! i'm actually two chapters ahead with writing this fic because of all the free time i have. im still trying to pace myself with the updates tho just in case i fall into a rut.
> 
> as always comments and kudos are really appreciated! i love hearing from you guys! i'm actually kinda new in the star trek fandom and im currently making my way through TOS. i love it soooo much. see yall in the next update!


	3. Chapter 3

Maybe the number four is Jim’s lucky number.

He’s twelve now, and it has been approximately four years since he last saw Spock, eight years since their first remembered encounter. Jim would be lying if he said that he didn’t hold on to hope every night, telling himself that he would see those pointy ears again if he just closed his eyes, that insanely neat bowl cut, those flowy vulcan robes. Hell, some nights he liked to project his feelings really loudly before he went to sleep, whatever the hell that meant. He forces his mind to race, thinking about this or that or the other, hoping that he would be ‘ _emotionally compromised_ ’ enough to pull Spock once again into his dreamscape like some sleep kidnapper. 

It’s not to say that he has had any trouble feeling shitty the past four years. He finds that, as time passes, Frank’s hatred for him grows and grows and so does Jim’s inability to give a flying fuck. He accepts the throw of every punch or shove or insult like it’s his daily bread, and moves on with his life as soon as he steps out the farmhouse door. People say that he’s gotten more cheery, though. That’s a carefully crafted act that he’s spent a long time perfecting. He’s made a lot of friends in his grade school from being nothing more than the class clown, the highest scorer, and an avid jock. A triple threat. To top all of that off, a good handful of girls and guys alike are wooed by his sandy hair, his god-given baby blues. He’d have to thank his dad for all of that. They love it even more when he gives them a blinding, toothy smile. 

There’s a careful narrative to all this, Jim recalls with satisfaction. With how perfect his life seemed on the outside, he might as well have been the main character to a coming-of-age holovid. Every part of his act is supported by pre-meditated props. He buys concealer to hide the bruises that Frank gives him, blaming football on the ones too angry and purple. He plays off his intellect as something he can’t care less about, and refuses to be moved to higher grade levels when his teachers insist that his brains are wasted. He flirts with the girls, and sometimes guys too, but never really acts on any of it. They all have their own dream mates, after all, and Jim is just a pretty boy in their class. Nice to look at, but never wanted. He puts on his arrogant, funny, nice guy persona and waves off any questions about who his lucky partner is. _Very pretty_ , he would say, _I wanna keep him all to myself_.

So when he fucks it all up in one day, he knows where it all went wrong.

First, it’s the telltale signs of one of Sammy’s tantrums. If he could even still have one of those at the tender age of sixteen. There’s the familiar sounds of the start of World War IV downstairs where Frank’s filthy curses become matched with Sammy’s fluency in them, the painful thud of a body slammed against the wall, Frank’s howl as Sammy strikes him back. It’s not long before Jim sees his brother’s angry figure stomping past his room, and hears the tinny clinks of clothes hangers yanked out of the wardrobe, the thump of Sammy’s duffel bag and the agonizing stretch of a zipper being forced close. Frank’s booming voice is still going on a tirade about how much of an insolent brat Sammy is, albeit still standing his ground in the living room. Jim rises curiously from where he was sitting on his bed, quietly studying on his PADD. He walks into the hallway and almost gets knocked to the ground when Sammy brushes past him, bursting duffel bag in tow.

“Sammy?” Jim follows his brother’s angry march down the hall, the older boy’s shoulders are hunched, steam practically coming out of his ears, “What’s going on? Where are you going?”

“ _Away_ , Jim.” Sammy seethes, “I’ve had enough. Mom’s never coming back and I can’t be a Kirk in this house with that bastard here.”

“That’s not _true_ , Mommy’s gonna come back next year.” Jim stops abruptly, right before the staircase that leads down, and so does Sammy. Frank’s voice feels more amplified here, like he’s spitting into a megaphone, but the both of them have had enough practice tuning that out. His brother turns sharply to face him, and Jim reels seeing the tears on his face. He hasn’t seen his brother cry in so long. 

“She’s not gonna stay! She’s gonna get reassigned somewhere else, maybe for ten _fucking_ years next time, and she’s gonna do it again and again until she’s dead!” Sam yells, and at his younger brother’s stupefied face, his voice grows softer. The cold edge, however, stays regardless. “She loves space more than she loves us, Jimmy, and I’m _done_ waiting for her.”

Sam turns back around and stomps down the stairs. He barely makes it halfway before Jim speaks again. “Where are you even gonna go?” 

“I don’t know. Aurelan’s place for a while, maybe. Then we’ll jump states.” When Sammy makes it all the way down, landing in the living room, he turns his face towards where Frank must be standing and his face contorts to that of hatred, “Just anywhere away from _here_!” He amplifies his voice, purposefully. 

“Fuckin’ _good_! You worthless brat!” Frank yells back, and doesn’t make any move to stop him.

Sam barely contains a growl before he marches across the small space between the foot of the stairway and the door. Jim barely scrambles down to meet him, one hand still clutching onto the railing, and tries to ignore the growing pang of sadness and hurt and _betrayal_ , the tears gathering in his eyes. 

“What about me?” he asks indignantly, and maybe it’s selfish, but he’s also a lot more _scared_.

Sammy turns around one last time to look at him, eyes hard as stone. And Jim knows that there’s no way he’s ever going to see his brother again, not like this, still young and brash and confident. But at least, there’s still that little bit of remorse lining his face, and Jim understands. He would do the same thing.

“Sorry Jimmy.” Sam’s voice is soft, and he hikes the strap of his duffel bag tighter against his shoulder, sniffs once, “Every man for himself.”

The door closes resolutely behind him, glass panes rattling. And Jim has never felt so alone. 

He doesn’t know how long he just stood there, staring at the empty space Sammy once occupied, trying to come into grips with the hollowness in his chest. They were never really close, not in the way he sees his other friends are with their siblings, at least. But they loved each other. They had no choice _but_ to love each other. Sam was the only constant in this house, other than Frank’s never-ending vehemence for anything and everything under the sun, the cuts and bruises on his skin. They had each other, in the most distant, echoed way. But that wasn’t enough. 

Jim never really was enough, not for anyone. Not even for his own mother. The grip he has on the railing tightens, and his mind is suddenly filled with the imagery of red sand and striking heat and a big, brown, not-bear. He chokes down a sob. He’ll never be enough. Not for anyone. And certainly not for… 

“Hey, kid.” Frank calls, in the tone of voice that he uses that’s not quite placating, not quite nice, either. He throws a set of car keys his way and Jim barely has half a mind to catch it before it smacks him in the face. “Make yourself useful and clean that damn Corvette, inside _and_ out.”

“Why?” Jim barely croaks out,

“I’m takin’ it down to the dealers tomorrow to get it sold.” Frank grumbles, and makes his way to the fridge to grab another set of beers. Like he hadn’t just driven out his barely-wife’s kid. Like he hasn’t just slapped Jim across the face with that one sentence.

“You can’t sell the Corvette! It was my dad’s!” Jim yells, his hands balling into fists on his sides. He could absentmindedly feel the metal keys digging into his palms, and the muted pain of that grounds him to this moment. 

“I don’t fuckin’ _care_ who it belonged to.” Frank slams the fridge shut and points a beer bottled-hand his way. “Your dad’s dead and anything Winona owns is mine. So I’ll do with it what I damn well please.”

“You’re _not_ my dad.” Jim seethes,

“Never wanted to be.” Frank uncaps the bottle and takes a long swig, sits down heavily on the couch, and reaches for the remote. “Now you go clean that goddamn piece of junk or don’t even _bother_ coming back under my roof.”

And that was the end of that, because once Frank plants his ass down on the battered sofa in front of the TV, neither god nor strong weather could pry him out of his trance. Jim allows himself a moment to simmer in his anger before he stomps out the door and slams it shut behind him. 

The Corvette. Jim just looks at it from the porch where it’s parked in front of the farmhouse, no doubt taken out of the garage because Frank had shown it to a dealer or whatever, tested its engines. The thought of Frank even sitting his ass down on the car’s leather seats made Jim want to scream. He didn’t even realize how much he idolized this hunk of metal until this very moment, the way he wound it so closely to the idea of his dead father, so tight and cherished that it was impossible to see its red paint and think of anything but blonde hair and blue eyes, the way his mom won’t even look at him on his birthday. 

He honestly should’ve realized it when the only thing his mind conjured up as a safe space in his dreams was the sleek hood of this very car, looking up at the stars. He met Spock here for the first time, both of them splayed out- more like sitting primly on the vulcan’s part, at least- sharing introductions while the older boy got peeved at Jim’s lack of personal space. He spent a few more years like that, thinking about nothing and everything alone in his dreams, sometimes lying on the hood, or getting behind the wheel, or jumping up and down on top of its roof like if he launched himself high enough, gained the right footing, he would be able to grab onto a star and never let go.

The Corvette brought a lot of hope and a world of pain with it. Jim marches over to it, lays a hand over one dusty headlight, and feels the way the Riverside dirt coats his fingers and leaves a print. Frank was right. George Kirk is dead, and the car had to go.

That is, on his terms, at least.

Similar to how Frank’s ass is surgically, physically, lawfully incapable of being removed from the couch, it’s even more impossible to stop Jim Kirk once he has made up his mind. He yanks the door of the Corvette open and jumps in the driver’s seat, relishing the way the old leather gives in to shape around his body, not minding the plume of dust that rises. She feels just like she did in his dreams years ago. He sticks the keys in the ignition and twists, and the car roars to life. 

He knows how to drive her, he’s done it plenty of times when Frank isn’t looking, too passed out to be aware of his surroundings or during the few times he goes out and tries to get a job and fails. So there are no inhibitions at all as he reverses out of the lot and steps on the gas, windows open and music blaring. The coldness in his veins is gone, replaced with fire and adrenaline and blinding rage.

Jim doesn’t know where he’s going, just joyrides in the vast expanse of Iowan plains, just knows that tonight, neither him nor the car are going back to that godforsaken farmhouse. 

It doesn’t take long for a comm to patch through to the Corvette’s updated holoscreen- something his father worked on whenever he came back to Earth during shore leaves. There were a lot of things he tinkered with, his mother told him. The speakers were top of the line, the engine fitted with some kind of core that allowed it to go almost twice as fast as it usually could, the Corvette’s internal systems itself able to recognize audio cues to regulate temperature, activate screens, wipers, windows and so on. Jim lets Frank’s fuming voice filter through the speakers, mingling with the heavy beats of the _Beastie Boys_. 

“ _Are you out of your goddamn mind? That car is a_ fuckin’ _antique. Think you can get away with this just ‘cause your mother’s off-planet? You get your ass back home,_ now _. You live in my house, buddy. You live in_ my _house and that’s_ my _car! You get one scratch on that car and I’m gonna whip your ass-_ ”

Jim shuts down the holoscreen. Yeah. That’s enough of that. He turns the wheel, rounding a corner he didn’t realize was there, and oh- the plains are much bigger than he ever could have thought. In the car, driving so fast he felt as if he could take off from the tarred road and into the blue skies, Riverside seems boundless. Sprawling. Nothing could stop Jim and take him back to that empty white house. He was simply too fast, uncatchable. Nothing could beat the heated thrum of the Corvette, enveloping him in its own kind of warmth, safe from Frank and the empty house and his empty dreams. The purring engine is a promise, his last saving grace, and he listens to it roar.

Jim reaches up and undoes the latches that keep the hood in place. It flies off before he even has the chance to see it go, almost ripping his hand away with it. He suddenly feels naked just sitting there, unprotected against the elements, and he chances a look behind him only to see the white covering laying morosely amongst overgrown grass. A bubble of laughter rises in his chest and Jim lets out a whoop of excitement. The sound blends with the wind whipping against his face, barely audible. That must strike a few thousand dollars off her worth. Jim revels in that.

Then he sees a small figure in the distance, lonesome and pitiful against the neverending green, the only white speck amongst fields of grass. As the car rockets forward, the figure becomes clearer and he recognizes the set of those shoulders, the dust-blonde hair that matches his own. The overstuffed duffel bag. Jim smacks his palm against the Corvette’s horn, and the resounding honk is eerily clear, unmuffled. He feels as though it was his own voice speaking. 

“ _Jim_?” He hears Sammy’s distant yell as his brother becomes close enough to touch at one second and miles away from him in another. Jim looks back and waves, and he really wished he didn’t.

Patrol cops. There’s one dressed head to toe in black, perched on top of a hoverbike. Its machinery had been so silent, save for the lone siren that blares now to signal its presence, that Jim hadn’t even realized that the cop had snuck up on him. The hoverbike matches his speed easily and the officer says, too mechanically, right beside the car door, “Citizen. Pull over.”

 _Absolutely not_ , Jim’s mind supplies, and he veers off the tarred road, onto good old Iowan dirt. 

It catches the cop off-guard, and the hoverbike whizzes past him on the straight path before the rider’s reflexes finally kick in. He wrenches his vehicle around to follow. Jim laughs, feels the dust kicking up around the car and from the tailing bike and the angry Riverside wind like rising waves, like the aftermath of an explosion that ignited when the Corvette’s tires hit the dirt. He hoots, turning back and sees the hoverbike lagging behind, no longer able to keep up, and he thinks about yelling an insult or two before something tells him to look forward and-

He _crashes_ into rusty metal gates. The sound is grating when the chain doesn’t give out and explosive when the bumper overpowers it and Jim bursts through. There is no more grass on this side of the land, nothing left to look at but miles and miles of paper-brown earth and rooted rocks and clear blue skies, _the color of his dad’s eyes_ , and nothing more than-

A deadly chasm. Jim sees it right up ahead, has maybe just a handful of seconds before the earth would give out under him. He expects himself to panic, to cry out and turn around and think of a way to out-maneuver the cop, to _get the hell out of here_ , but his smile turns into a wicked grin and he realizes. The abyss is calling out to him. The darkness he barely sees between the cliffing dirt, juxtaposing the afternoon Riverside sun, is suddenly a beacon, a place for safe landing. _This_ is what he’s meant to do, where the wind takes him. This is the place the roaring engines whisper of. 

George Kirk is dead, the car has to go, and Jim is going down with it.

Jim steps harder on the gas and he surges forward, the chasm so close he could almost feel the flutes of wind whistling between its ravenous crack, could almost feel the fall, the dirt that gives away. And he’s nearly there. It’s _right there_ . But a blur of images attacks him; a galaxy full of stars and planets and nebulas alike, a chain link of daisies in his hands, the saccharine sweet feeling of fists connecting to a face, and then a warm hug, the tightening of fingers around his wrists as he fades from a dream. And his veins turn cold when something in his head screams at him to _stop not now, you can’t die you haven’t seen the world, you haven’t seen or lived or known_. It blinds him and deafens him and he doesn’t even realize it when he wrenches the Corvette’s door open and launches himself out painfully, rolling on good old Riverside dirt, before the ground disappears and-

He’s standing on nothing. He can’t see but he can feel the horrifying claim of nothingness beneath his feet. Half of his mind, the one he can control, wants to let go. The other half, the one taking charge, surges with fear and adrenaline and _survival_ . Jim can register his fingers clawing painfully against the cliffside, seeking and claiming purchase with the underside of his fingernails. He hauls himself up with an upper body strength he _knows_ he doesn’t have, collapses on solid, solid, _solid_ ground and scrambles back from the edge for good measure. And Jim can see again. The sky is blue and cloudless and severe. His dad’s eyes watching him. 

It is blocked promptly by the head of a helmeted cop. Jim exhales shakily, heart still hammering in his chest and head full of memories that don’t belong to him. 

“Is there a problem, officer?”

Jim could almost imagine the scowl beneath that mask. “Citizen. What is your name?”

“My name is James Tiberius Kirk.”

George Kirk is dead, the car has gone, but for some reason, Jim is still right here.

Jim gets a ride home from the patrol officer and is beaten half to death by Frank before the sun decides to set and end his misery. The sky’s as dark as coals by now, somewhere past midnight, and his stepfather’s voice is so hoarse from yelling that when he turns to get a beer and Jim sneaks up to his room, he doesn’t follow. 

His body’s still sore from when he tumbled out of the Corvette, even sorer now after Frank has emptied out his rage on him for losing his betting money, the Corvette a sad mangle of red metal and fuel on the bottom of the chasm. Jim doesn’t even remember collapsing on his bed- still covered in dirt but he can’t bring himself to care- before he’s instantly tugged into fitful sleep-

And greeted with a shove that knocks his ass flat on red sand.

“Spock?” Jim slurs, his jaw sending a spike of pain through his skull where Frank’s punch landed solidly, bottom lip stinging where it’s cut. He looks up and the vulcan sun barely lets him make out Spock’s grown features, fifteen years old and unfairly handsome now, brown eyes so filled with anger it feels as though the heat that warms the ground is coming from him. He stands over Jim, hands curled into fists. 

“I can not believe you were so foolish-” Spock seethes, then shakes his head, as if he can’t get the words out. “To even attempt, even _think_ of-”

“Whoa,” Jim hauls himself back on his feet and steps forward, shoulders slumping when Spock takes an adamant step back and turns his head away, unwilling to look at him. The fear that tremors through the dreamscape, that rattles the branches of the leafless trees they’re standing under, makes Jim shiver, “What the hell, Spock? Are you okay?”

“You are questioning _my_ mental state?” Spock’s hands flex indignantly, and his voice breaks at the next few words as he looks resolutely into Jim’s eyes, the chocolate brown that looks back at him too full of emotion to be anything other than human, “You were going to _kill yourself_.”

“What? How did you-” Jim’s stomach drops, and remembers the flashes of images, the voice in his head, his limbs following someone else’s commands, “It was _you_ .” He takes another step forward, and this time Spock doesn’t move away. “But _how_?”

“I had been meditating early.” Spock looks at the ground, eyes skittering as though he was counting every little pebble he sees around his feet, “I was feeling extremely distressed for no plausible reason. This sensation lasted for approximately one point three hours. It reached a troubling height, so I decided to allow myself a short break from my studies to meditate. The very moment I closed my eyes, your mind pulled me in. Called for me.”

He looks up, right into Jim, and the fear he feels grips the earth and shakes it. 

“You were in the car. I can hear your thoughts. You were about to drive yourself into the ravine.” Spock’s face contorts, the last dredges of vulcan resolve gone, and Jim moves forward to take his shaking hands into his own. The vulcan’s breath hitches and the grief floods through their contact, raging and coarse and unending. Jim inhales sharply. “I am very _sorry_ Jim. I did not mean to- but I could not let you _die_ . I could not _sit there_ and watch it happen. I had to- and it was selfish but I _had_ to-”

“ _Spock_ .” Jim reaches up to cup his palm against his cheek. He wipes away a stray tear with his thumb, and Spock leans into the touch, chest still hiccuping. And that _hurts_ . Jim decides to fuck it all and wraps his arms tightly around the vulcan, face pressed into the taller boy’s chest. The latter melts into the embrace. “Spock, I’m so sorry, I had no idea. I kind of thought that it could have been you, _maybe_ , but I haven’t even heard from you in _four years_.”

“I could feel it, Jim. _Everything_. Your desperation, your grief, your anger. I felt it as though it were my own.” Spock’s arms around his shoulders curl tighter, “I waited for you for hours. Knowing how distressed your mind was, I knew you would pull me into your dream. You did not come, and for a moment I thought that I had dreamt it all. That I failed, and you were..”

 _Dead_. Jim’s mind supplied unhelpfully.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, and Spock pulled away to brush the hair out of his face,

“You do not need to apologize,” the vulcan said softly, the kind of soft that pokes against all the tender spots in Jim’s heart, and then hesitates before asking, “May I ask why you were driving the car in the first place?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Jim smirks, “It’s just that someone once told me ‘ _exacting revenge to one’s bullies_ ’ can be pretty satisfying.”

Spock’s eyes widen with horror at the echo of his own words, before he says carefully, “Jim, I hope that you were not inspired to do what you did because of me, I did not mean for you to-”

“Oh, god, Spock _of course_ not!” Jim amends hastily, sensing a barrage of guilt in their link, “I was just teasing you. I was stupid, and I’m glad you saved me. It’s just..”

Jim withdraws completely from the embrace, untangling their limbs, before he lowers himself down on the ground, sitting back, leaning against the trunk of a white tree. When he pats the patch of sand next to him, Spock takes his cue and settles beside him, legs crossed. The worry, doubled by curiosity, practically emanates from him. 

Jim lets out a shaky breath, folds his hands on his lap, “My brother, Sam, ran away from home today..”

He doesn’t know when he stopped talking, only knows that by the end of it all Spock has a hand tightly clasped around his wrist, constantly feeding him calming thoughts, but that does nothing to soothe Jim’s resounding fear. He doesn’t know where to go from here. Frank is surely going to tell his mom once morning comes, and he’s already said that he’s going to report Jim to the police for carnapping and destruction of property and whatnot. The officer that drove him home only insisted that he stayed there since it was getting late, and their local precinct was pretty small, so he’ll come back for Jim in the morning to get him put through. Frank had assured him that Jim wasn’t going anywhere. And oh god, what if he goes to juvie or something? He’s just _twelve_ , for god’s sake.

Everything is perfect until it’s not.

A tiny part of him tells himself that everything’s going to be fine, that his mom is a decorated officer in Starfleet, his dad is a goddamn galactical hero, and maybe some strings will get pulled and he can _stay_ . He’s never wanted to stay before. But he thinks of his friends and football and the math exam he has next week and realizes that those are the only things that tethers him here. And he belongs in the stars, amongst the planets, but he may never get there if he fucks his whole life up over a _goddamn Chevy Corvette_. 

“Spock,” Jim swallows the lump in his throat, and looks up at the older boy, who’s already looking at him, “I’m really scared.”

“You have every reason to be.” Spock replies after a while, clearly picking his words carefully, “Fear is not always a harmful feeling. Fear can drive you.”

“But I don’t wanna be scared all the time.” Jim blinks around the tears forming in his eyes, and Spock’s wave of warmth increases, “I’m so tired of being scared. I’m so tired of only seeing you when I am, and we can’t just spend time doing fun things like friends do.”

Spock blinks at him, “We are friends, Jim?”

Jim’s brows bunch on his forehead, a tiny bloom of insecurity growing in his chest, “I mean, well, yeah? I hope so?”

Spock’s fingers tighten around his wrist, not uncomfortably. Assuringly. “Yes, Jim. We are friends, and I am gratified that you think of me as one.”

“Oh,” Jim’s cheeks flush, one would say, _illogically_ , “Cool.”

“Jim,” Spock licks his lips, and Jim sees the peek of a dark green tongue, before he starts talking again, “While I regret that you have had to face such an abundance of fear in your life, I find it admirable that you have still become the man you are today. You are smart, thoughtful, brave, and kind. That is more than I can say for a lot of people in my life.” Spock looks sheepishly at him, the tips of his ears burning green, “I have never had a friend before, and I am honored that you are my first.”

“Oh, _Spock_.” Jim reaches for his other hand, and delivers a gentle squeeze, trying as hard as he can to project the same warmth that Spock is giving him. “You’re the first real friend I’ve ever had, too.”

They sit in amicable silence like that for a while, listening to the vulcan wind whistle between the white tree branches, the way the sand plumes around their legs when it picks up. The hot sun, an angry unseen fireball in the sky, feels almost sensitive to their case, and eases its brutal shine in a way that makes the air feel comfortably warm, not scalding. Jim has been looking down at their joined hands for a while now, absentmindedly shifting through Spock’s thoughts, of contentment and affection and relief, both echoing and mixing with Jim’s own. When he looks up, he finds Spock already looking at him. The crease between his brows tells him that he’s nervous.

“Jim,” Spock starts to say, and his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip again, something Jim is starting to realize he does when he’s anxious, “I must confess-”

And just as a testament to how bad Jim’s luck is, Spock starts to blur rapidly in front of him, taking the red sands of vulcan, the white birch-like trees with him. Jim’s heart seizes, feeling the same dredging panic that he felt only hours before, when he doesn’t feel the earth beneath his feet, when he can’t control his limbs and he can’t see, dangling off the cliff. The enveloping warmth of the planet starts to wear away, feeling as though he was being forcefully ripped apart from an embrace he hasn’t even fully registered. Jim clutches onto Spock’s hand tightly, distantly realizing that Spock was gripping back just as hard.

“You can tell me next time.” Jim yells when he sees Spock’s pained frown, knowing how the sounds blur when they’re waking up, 

There’s a wave of uncertainty flowing through their contact, the inability to guarantee, “Jim, you _know-_ ”

“Just _please_ tell me we’re going to see each other again.” Jim says desperately, and he knows it’s not a fair promise to make, not one a vulcan would even consider, but Spock just nods his head, as solemn as he could ever be,

“Yes, Jim,” and he pushes the image of affection, of care that runs even deeper than the chasm that Jim almost drove into. It both chills and warms him down to his bones, “We will.”

And then he’s gone. The dream warps into the solitude of his big white house, empty once again, only this time there’s a frightening truth behind that. It’s cold. So, so, cold, and so unlike Vulcan in all its ways. He sighs, and drops his head onto his knees. Jim could almost feel the lasting traces of Spock’s hand clasping around his own, the warmth that lingers, that seems just as unwilling to fade.

George Kirk is dead, the car has gone, and Jim doesn’t know what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus,, the chapter after this one is gonna be tarsus iv and when i tell you that im absolutely working my ass off,, its gonna be over twice as long as all the other chapters because of how much there is to unpack but i believe it's gonna be all worth it in the end!!
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated!! thank you all for the lovely comments so far! im glad you like this AU!! it's always nice to see what you guys think about the story and it warms my heart :"))


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE LONG AWAITED TARSUS IV CHAPTER!! its a WHOPPING 9k words long and it took me like TWO weeks to write it because i had to figure some things out and im kinda satisfied with it! mild tw for eating disorder at the beginning

Spock is _so_ hungry. All the time. 

This peculiar sensation had started to show approximately three point four vulcan months ago, revealing itself slowly, at first in the form of increased hydration intake and the uncanny obligation to finish every single thing on his plate. And then it started to grow. His cravings for unbalanced hearty meals, packed with carbohydrates and fat and protein, to a means that was unnecessary because he knew it exceeded his recommended caloric intake. Then, it was the need for second helpings, sometimes even a third. He needed snacks every few hours, even whole meals in between the times when he ate.

He would gorge himself with food, a lot of the time with an unprecedented preference for unhealthy terran delicacies, and run to the refresher to puke it all out. Spock’s stomach felt bruised, overused and weary, and his throat stung with the burn of rejected food and bile. 

His mother worries. Amanda is constantly by her son’s bedside once the eating disorder had reached its peak and Spock could no longer stomach anything he ate, and he ate a _lot_ . It was a constant cycle of consumption and rejection, half of his mind wanting to shut down at the sight of food and the other half craving it, _needing_ it, would go feral with a sort of natural, instinctive fear that he would die if he didn’t so much as see a replicator in his room. His mother would cry when he gets into these fits, would press soft, pleading kisses on Spock’s brow and beg for him to tell her what’s wrong. As if he knew. As if he _wanted_ any of this.

When at first Spock was gaining a little weight, something that his mother insisted was healthy for a boy his age, he was now underweight and malnourished. He would eat everything and digest nothing, his body vehemently rejecting the food once he swallowed it. His once pale skin, colored very lightly with a healthy green flush, is now sallow and gaunt. When Spock looked in the mirror, he couldn't help but think that he looked like Jim when he saw him at eight years old, minus the cuts and bruises. 

His father had sent for a vulcan healer, but she had simply said that this was an ailment of the mind, not the body. And once she asked if there was anything wrong with his bondmate, T’Pring, all eyes turned to Spock. 

“We have not spoken after our bonding.” Spock stated, disallowing shame to plague his thoughts, not when so much of his mental efforts were focused on mere survival, 

“We must contact her to notify her of your state, and to ask if she is experiencing any similar ailments.” Sarek said, and Spock could detect the disapproval in his tone. He turns to the healer, who is already packing up, and nods, “I will leave to do this immediately.”

“Spock, don’t read too much into him,” his mother soothes when he sees her son staring at the door frame, even when Sarek and the healer have both long gone, “He worries about you, even if he doesn’t show it.”

“He does not approve of my and T’Pring’s lack of companionship.” Spock says quietly, and Amanda strokes the hair out of his sweating forehead.

“He of all people knows that you can’t change what can’t be helped,” his mother hums, “If you don’t get along with her, then you don’t get along with her. Simple as that.”

“ _Kaiidth_.” Spock murmurs. Amanda smiles.

“There you go. Some good old vulcan logic,” she teases, and laughs when the corner of Spock’s lips quirk. There is a drop of silence as she hesitates before asking, “Is there… an underlying reason why you guys don’t get along?”

“Although she and I share a bond, I feel no desire to establish anything more.” Spock says tersely, and at his mother’s withering look at his rudeness, he decides to amend, “She is not an unpleasant person, mother. We just do not, as you say, _‘click’_.”

“But it would be illogical to just pretend your bondmate doesn’t exist, Spock. I thought it was a common thing to just check up on each other, since your minds are so closely linked. It’s almost like self-preservation, after all.” Amanda says, and she knows _exactly_ what she’s doing. She has _always_ been the only one able to see right through Spock’s bullshit.

He squirms under her gaze for a second before conceding, because once his mother has set her eyes on something, she doesn’t let go. Much like another human he knows.

“She wishes to make contact with her dream mate. They met as children and T’Pring is adamant to be bonded to him. She has made it clear that she will sever our bond the very moment she finds him.” Spock says quietly,

It doesn’t bother him at all, of course. Spock never had the chance to grow attached to her, nor is he interested in doing so. T’Pring is a smart girl, very pretty with her deep brown eyes and long, sleek black hair. She is also just a little bit more emotional than the average vulcan, or even _half-vulcan_ , and Spock suspects that it is due to that childhood encounter. He is aware that she is still attempting to reach him, but as they are both vulcan, it is harder to obtain a sure result to one’s attempts of dreamsharing. As hard as it already is for a vulcan to dream, you must also anticipate that your dream mate has chosen the exact moment to do the same. 

And yes, Spock has had his fair share of childhood encounters with his human dream mate, and _yes_ , the boy has successfully rattled his emotional responses every single time, but he doesn’t obsess over Jim like T’Pring does over Stonn. Spock merely dreams, or rather gets _pulled_ into them, when Jim needs him, and he offers his help as a friend. Even when the boy isn’t necessarily _asking_ for any help, Spock winces as he recalls the whole Corvette debacle, the yawning chasm and the darkness that follows it. 

Sometimes, he wishes he had even half of the bravery, the _hope_ , that T’Pring has.

“Spock?” his mother repeats, and Spock blinks to see his mother’s concerned gaze, her hand on his arm, “I said, I’m sorry that she said that to you.”

Spock looks away, “It does not matter to me, mother.”

“Of course not,” his mother says, each syllable dripping with sarcasm, and she smiles widely when Spock looks at her with an accusatory glare. 

Sarek walks into the room at that exact moment, and his mother calmly retracts her hand, as if she had never placed it there in the first place. Spock finds it illogical that he wishes she had not done so. 

“T’Pring informed me that she has not been experiencing any ailments.” Sarek’s eyes are narrowed, not at his mother for the contact, but at Spock, something accusing in his eyes, “Your mind should only be bonded to me, your mother, and your bondmate. All of us are in good health, and yet your body is not the cause of your illness.”

The room is silent. Spock parts his lips as if to speak, wants to tell his father that it’s impossible, then, that this is not a matter of the body. That he must be sick somehow because his mind is not tethered to anyone else. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, _must_ be the truth, and so-

Spock’s eyes widen as a flash of understanding strikes him, his blood running cold. _No_ . It can’t be. They had not even met, did not do a physical necessitation of the bond, did not even perform a _meld_ . He is lightyears away, and Spock has only ever seen him, in a pseudo state, four times his entire life. But he thinks of the way he could recall hitting the ground as he jumped out of the terran car. How, even now, he knows how the dirt smelled, how the rock felt underneath his fingernails as he dug into it, the terran sky that was so blue it was the color of a supernova. He could not have done what he had with the Corvette if they were bondless. Spock had essentially taken over Jim’s mind, his _body_ , because he believed that his life was in danger. But they _can’t_ have bonded, it is physically impossible. And yet?

“Your mind is bonded to someone else.” Sarek accuses, and whatever expression he finds on Spock’s face just solidifies his claim. He nods, shoulders stiff, “It is only logical that the bond is severed.”

Spock is gripped with fear, “Sa-mekh-”

“ _Sarek_.” Amanda’s voice is ice, and she stands from her seat by his bedside, eyebrows furrowed and lips tight in a way that means neither of them should speak until she’s finished. She looks firmly at her husband, “Clearly whatever bond Spock has with this person is a strong one. We can’t just break a bond like that without damaging his mind. To be affected so deeply by another person, in a way that resembles how you are affected by my own illnesses…”

His mother’s eyes widen slightly, lips parting in understanding. She turns to Spock, a glimmer of surprise and- what is that? Happiness? Relief?

“Spock,” Amanda says quietly, and steps closer to him, “Is this person…”

“T’hy’la.” Spock nods, not finding the words to explain further in his own shock,

“But how? When did you do the bond?” Amanda asks,

“We did not.” Spock answers, shaking his head, partly to clear it and partly to indicate the negative, “It would be impossible to do so. Mother, Jim is lightyears away. He is a human.”

Amanda’s eyes shine, maybe with tears or with joy at the prospect of another human in the family, which Spock must delicately tell her is impossible even though it would break her heart. Because it is un-vulcan, and he already has T’Pring. Either way she sputters, wanting and trying to say something, but his father beats her to it.

“And yet you have formed a t’hy’la bond without physical contact?” Sarek asks, his vulcan resolve not letting anything show on his features, but Spock can sense the incredulity in his tone,

“I was not aware that we even shared one. I have only seen him on four occasions.” 

“You didn’t tell us you dreamt, Spock.” His mother’s tone is a little disappointed. Sad. He is aware of the human belief that confiding is a show of trust. 

“I do not. His dreams would interrupt me during meditation. Jim’s mind, when in high distress, pulls me into his dreamscape. It cannot be anticipated.” Spock winces as a shiver runs through him, cold and dreadful, and he suddenly knows for a fact that Jim _needs_ him. He looks imploringly at his mother, “Mother, there is something wrong with him.”

“Something is not simply _wrong_ , Spock.” Sarek steps closer, standing just by the foot of his bed. The coldness in his eyes are gone, replaced instead with a sense of urgency, a grief that’s barely there, “I have seen these signs of distress in t’hy’la couples, an echo of the other’s suffering. If the effects have mounted as yours have, so deep it compromises your physiology, it can only mean one thing,” his father looks at him with a pity Spock has never seen before, “Your t’hy’la is dying.”

His mother cries beside him, placing a comforting hand on his arm once again, but Spock barely feels it. He thinks of that time, one year ago, when he was angry and restless for hours, just moments before Jim nearly killed himself, and realizes how much of a fool he was for not realizing their bond sooner. Of course. Of _course_ . The natural instincts of bearing a t’hy’la bond would overtake him, and would engage in the necessary means of mutual preservation. If a vulcan’s t’hy’la dies after forming a mental bond, he would go mad. But now this is a different predicament. The trouble is not in the mentality. Jim is hurt or sick or in some sort of danger that Spock can’t _comprehend_ but whatever it is it’s _killing_ him. But maybe he can help, once again, and maybe it’s too late but he _must_ try.

“Sa-mekh,” Spock starts to say, his hands shaking in his lap where they’re curled into tight fists, “I apologize for my… obliviousness to the forming of this bond. But I ask for your permission to meditate, so that I might see him. He has come close to dying before, and I prevented it. I wish to try to save him once more. I understand if you would instruct me to sever the bond, but I ask, please, to have it done after I see him one last time-”

“To sever a t’hy’la bond is an evil act,” Sarek says firmly. Spock freezes, thinking that he perhaps misheard his father, but he looks up to meet his softening eyes, “My son, what your mother and I share is something sacred. Above all odds, you have somehow created that same bond, if not a stronger one, across galaxies. It is a fascinating discovery, perhaps as a result of your hybrid physiology. I would never ask you to shun something so precious.”

Spock’s heart clenches, and suddenly feels the hope T’Pring must feel when she searches for Stonn all these years.

“Sa-mekh,” he says, voice hoarse, “Thank you.”

“Thanks is unnecessary,” is his father’s simple answer, one eyebrow raised,

“Now go, Spock,” his mother’s smile is warm, and he knows that she relishes these moments, where he and his father get along.

Spock nods, drawing up his legs so they’re folded underneath him. His movements are still weak, and his head is spinning just a little, but he closes his eyes and focuses on peace. Calmness. Dismissing any other thought than that of the rising sun, the slow, sinuous way that sand flows between your fingers, the stir of a spoon inside a bowl of soup, and then-

He’s standing in a cold, damp cave. It’s so dark he can barely see two feet in front of him, and the air is as damp as the moss that grows on the walls. When he touches it, uses its slick surface to guide him in, it is soft and almost downy, insulating the sound of his footsteps. The overgrown plant that hangs over the small exit, much like the terran ivy, stops just centimetres above the ground, the dirt beyond it covered with pristine snow. The emerald strands barely let in any of the dim moonlight, casting long spikes of barely-there shadows on the mossy ground. Spock shivers as he walks deeper into the cave, the light left behind, no longer touching him.

Spock hears Jim before he even sees him.

The younger boy is unmoving on the cold ground, so small and tightly wounded that Spock almost steps on him. He lowers himself hastily, and finds that the back of Jim’s head is pressed against the wall, slightly cushioned by the thin layer of moss, and so is the length of his back. His legs and arms are curled around himself, his position almost fetal, but Spock can’t concentrate on anything other than the sharp juts of his bones. Everywhere. Jim’s fingers are knobbly and twig-like, skin sticking onto the bones of his wrists, his face gaunt, jaw too sharp for a boy his age. He’s bundled in a coat, some thick trousers and boots, and Spock just realizes how frigid it is here. Without the ivy guarding the exit, he’s sure that the snow would have blown inside. Seeing the way Jim shivers, he knows it’s not nearly warm enough for any human.

“Jim.” Spock says through chattering teeth. Vulcan is always so hot, scalding even. These temperatures aren’t suited for him. “ _Jim_.”

The boy doesn’t acknowledge him, just lays there, completely stagnant. Spock shifts closer and shakes his shoulder. Still nothing. Not even the tiniest bit of emotional transference through the brief contact. But Jim was always so _feeling._ Even when he clutched onto Spock’s robes as he hid behind him from the le-matya, he could feel his fear through the silken threads. Now there is nothing. Spock puts a hand on Jim’s cold face to angle it towards him, the smoothness of a child’s cheeks now gone. His heart stops when he is greeted with red blood. It trickles down from the start of his hairline, maybe even beyond that, but it is thick and congealed and drying. Spock doesn’t know how long it has been since the injury is sustained.

“ _Jim_ .” Spock says, pleadingly. He pats his jaw gently, hoping it is enough to rouse him. It isn’t. “Jim, _please_.”

He brings two fingers to the side of his neck and presses against his pulse. It jumps against his fingertips, there but faint, and so very slow. Spock breathes a sigh of relief but knows that knowing Jim is alive is not enough. He must wake up. Judging from the injury to his head, the intensity of the strike enough to break skin and draw blood, Jim might be suffering from a concussion. And he _must_ wake up. A shiver runs through Spock’s spine. He must wake up, or he might never be able to again. 

Acting purely on instinct, Spock lays himself down beside Jim, the horizontal position of his body mimicking Jim’s own, if not curled protectively around the younger boy. He brings up his hand, presses it onto the three points of Jim’s face in the way his father taught him, the way he has done to his mother and T’Pring, and lets out a shaky breath.

“My mind to your mind,” he recites, not knowing at all if any of this will work, “My thoughts to your thoughts.”

There is nothing but consciousness here. No feelings, no bright stars or swirling nebulas, no electric katra that is rooted beneath every stretch of land in Jim’s dream. Spock can’t see anything but darkness, can’t even see himself, but still he searches. Jim’s presence is there, so soft and cowering but _there_ , as if he has no intentions of waking up. That thought puts ice in Spock’s veins. It _must_ be a concussion. Either that or something worse. He moves determinedly, sifting through each strand of black that coats this- _whatever_ this is. A meld within a meld. A dream within a dream. He looks and pries and turns until he catches a wisp of bright yellow. Yellow like the vulcan sun, like the twinkle of golden jewelry, like rows and rows of wheat fields, like whatever material Jim’s katra is made of because this color is nothing but the energy of Jim’s _soul_ . Spock finds and he latches on and he _pulls_. 

He resurfaces. 

And Jim is right there with him. The boy jolts to consciousness and brings himself up on his elbows, both of them breathing heavily despite the lack of transference between them. But Jim isn’t looking at him. He doesn’t even notice that Spock is there. He looks towards the back of the cave, the darkness that spills outward from its depths, and scrambles to his knees as he crawls towards it. There are loud gasps of air as his bony fingers skim the ground, as if looking for something, bright blue eyes now dull from the lack of light. He’s sobbing and searching and Spock gets up to ease him, to cover his shoulder with his palm and balance his emotions, before Jim is crying out with a voice so desperate it rocks the walls of the cave with grief.

“Kevin? Percy?” he screams, voice hoarse with disuse, and shivers at the answering silence, “ _Thomas?_ ”

Spock falls to his knees beside him, places both his hands on Jim’s shoulders. The boy doesn’t feel it. Doesn’t feel _anything_ but guilt and fear and horror, horror towards himself, for having fallen asleep and leaving them behind to fend for themselves. And they are all so _small_. So, very small. He can imagine a body floating on the broken surface of a frozen lake, because Percy is so young and never listens and is always thirsty, but he doesn’t want Jim to worry and _of course_ he would go off by himself. And Kevin with his bravado and his eagerness to prove himself, his worth, after Greta was killed when his back was turned, and he would run towards the first sound he hears, if it would mean he could spare Jim and Thomas from having to deal with it, because they’re older and more important than him, so they _must live_ -

Spock gasps and releases Jim, who no doubt received some transference in return, because he whips his head around and he meets Spock’s eyes and oh- Jim’s eyes are blue. They're so, so blue like supernovas and how has Spock survived not knowing if he was alive for a year? For even a minute?

“We are dreaming.” Spock’s face falls, because he can see Jim’s expression of disbelief, of mistrust and fear, “Jim. You are _safe_.”

“You’re not real.” Jim breathes out, both of them still on their knees, and reaches out a skinny hand to place against Spock’s cheek. He’s so cold. “I’m dead. And you _can’t_ be real.”

“You are very much alive.” Spock says desperately, and places his own hand on top of Jim’s. He projects images of warmth, of comfort, blazing suns and sand and joined hands. Jim reels back in shock, a gasp leaving his tiny chest. “Jim. It is _me_.”

“Spock?” Jim’s voice rattles, painful in his throat. Tears fill his blue eyes, and his hands shake. He pulls Spock into a fierce hug that the vulcan returns with equal strength, his hands in dust-blonde hair. Jim’s whole body shivers against his, “Oh my god. _Spock_ . It’s _you_.”

Spock allows Jim to bury his face into his shoulder, all sharp edges and cold skin, sobbing into the fabric of his robes. He could feel his tears seep through, wetting skin. Spock does the only thing he knows how to do- rubs circles into Jim’s nape, the way his mother would when he used to cry as a young child, filling his thoughts with comfort and warmth, hoping none of the fear seeps through. 

He forces himself to cease the embrace after a while, once Jim’s sobs have petered out and the cave reverberates only with the soft hitches of his breath, the aftermath of a good cry. Spock reminds himself that he’s here for a reason. That Jim is dying and he might not even know it.

“What happened, Jim? Where are you?” Spock brushes his thumb against the younger boy’s wet eyelashes, the tears that cling onto them like dew, “This is not Earth.”

“I was out foraging. It was snowing and the ground was slippery and I must have fallen, hit my head on a rock-” Jim shakes his head, his eyes falling shut for a moment. When he opens them again, he looks at Spock with defeat. “This is Tarsus IV.”

Spock’s brows furrow, “The Earth colony?”

Jim inhales slowly, as if bracing himself for something, “Because I was so well-behaved before the Corvette thing, and because I’m apparently super smart, they gave me a special kind of punishment. Join the Tarsus IV colony, help with the farming and technology development and whatnot, and if I behave I’ll get to leave after two years. There were eight thousand of us living here, a good chunk of them kids like me, or families..”

Tears start to prickle in the edges of Jim’s eyes again, the coming wave of guilt and grief an echo of the one that came before, “It was all so _good_ at first. I’ve never made so many friends in my entire life. There were so many kids, all of them like me, weirdly smart. Kinda reckless. We all got into trouble and that’s why we ended up here. I think you would have liked them.” The laugh Jim lets out sounds more like a choke, and he winces, “And then the fungus came. It wiped out all our crops.

“We tried to salvage what we could at first, but the land turned totally infertile pretty quickly. The animals died soon after that. We had nothing. We _have_ nothing. Our colony of troubled kids was pretty separated from the town centre, and we had no idea what was going on except what was happening to our own crops. This fungus was spreading planet-wide. It got so bad that Kodos came and rounded us all up with the other colonists.”

Jim looked down at his lap, his knobbly hands fidgeting. Anger and indignancy oozes out of their contact. “He told us four thousand people have to die so the other four thousand can live. Guess which pile I ended up in.”

Spock’s fingers tighten around Jim’s bony shoulder. He pulls him closer, close enough for them to rest their foreheads together. Jim’s skin is cool against his own. A wave of gratitude greets him from their contact.

“Jim..” Spock says, at a loss on what to do,

“Yeah.” Jim mumbles weakly, looking away, as if in shame. As if any of this was his fault at all, “I was supposed to...”

Spock doesn’t let him continue, “But you did not?”

Jim shakes his head, “He gathered all the four thousand rejects in this big space. We were all practically piled on top of each other; the sick, the weak, the old. We didn’t know what was going on. All the kids I knew were there, except for some of the older ones. And our instructors, they were gone too. I remember just hanging onto Eve, our littlest. She was five years old and so much smarter than I was when..”

Jim clenched his eyes, shaking his head. Wet daubs of tears flow down his cheeks, “I’m sorry, Spock. I’m not explaining it too well, aren’t I?”

“Jim,” Spock brings his hand up, the one perched on Jim’s shoulder, and rests it on his cheek, “It does not matter. You do not have to tell me.”

“I _want_ you to know.” Jim insists, “In case I..”

“You will not.” Spock hisses, adamantly, then relaxes when Jim projects sorriness, “It is alright, Jim.” Spock worries his lip, unsure if it is wise to say it, “However, if you really wish to tell me, there is another way.”

“The dream?” Jim asks warily,

Spock shakes his head firmly, “No. To show me through your dreamscape would force you to relive it. A meld, however, would maintain distance between your consciousness and the memory. Simply a matter of recollection.”

“A meld?” Jim cocks his head to the side, “I know what that is, but I thought you needed physical contact?”

“That, too, is what I presumed.” Spock doesn’t know whether to tell Jim that they are bonded or not, whether it would help his current mental state or further damage it. He finds that he cannot risk it at this time. “I am half-human, and my hybrid status has somehow enhanced my telepathic abilities. Of course, we will only engage in a meld if you agree to it.”

Jim smiles, for the first time Spock has seen since they met a year ago, “Yeah, of course, Spock, that sounds cool. So what do I do? Just think about it?” 

“That would be sufficient.” Spock answers, placing his fingers on Jim’s psi-points, the younger boy looking up curiously as if to track Spock’s touch, “Are you prepared?”

“Yeah,” Jim says, enthusiastically,

“My mind to your mind,” Spock exhales, “My thoughts..”

_To your thoughts._

And he’s in a sleek, white room. It must be some kind of public area, a place of congregation, because its cold expanse could easily fit a few hundred people with considerable room between. Spock can tell by the sunlight filtering in that it’s somewhere ground level. The paneled, floor-to-ceiling windows have been folded to accommodate the four thousand people gathered there- he knows this number like a given factoid. They spill out into the grassless ground beyond. The ochre dirt, much more orange than Iowan soil, is mottled with spots of purple, ringed moldy green around the edges. Spock receives the thought that they look like eyes. And they stare back at your feet. 

White-uniformed soldiers, armed with non-Starfleet phasers, line the gated exits that encircle the field. They’re dressed head to toe in some kind of exoskeleton armor. There are more towards the front of the room, standing in an unbreaking chain-link line in front of a raised podium. Except it looks more like a dais than a stage, and on it is a singular microphone, and standing in front of it is-

“Kodos?” a small voice squeaks, “What does he want with us?”

Spock looks down and a small human girl is perched on his hip, arms tight around the base of his neck. Her words are spoken so softly, like even the sound of her voice itself is a secret. Her name is Eve, Jim’s mind supplies. She has large brown eyes, her curling black hair tied into pigtails, and she’s wearing the same beige tunic and trousers as all the children scattered around them. There’s a wave of fondness and affection and protectiveness that blossoms in his chest when he looks at her. The instinct to ease her mind, to shelter her, in the forefront of all his actions.

Jim, whose eyes Spock is looking through, brushes a hand on her cheek, “I dunno, Evie.”

“Can’t be anything good,” comes Thomas’ flippant reply,

When Spock looks up, he recognizes the faces of his friends. Thomas, with his dark curly hair and even darker eyes, pale skin red ripe with sunburn in too many places. He’s the only other kid around his age. Anyone else older than them, usually sixteen years old or older, have been separated from the kids’ colony weeks ago when they volunteered to venture out into town looking for help before their food supply got too bad. Before Kodos came. And they simply never returned. 

Both of Thomas’ hands are occupied, each holding onto one of his two younger brothers, Percy and Will, seven and four respectively. Both of them look like miniature versions of Thomas, except way less grumpy, permanent, gummy smiles fixed on their faces instead of a scowl. 

Greta, a small six year old girl who can’t stay still, buzzes with energy even with Kevin’s steadying grip around her small hand. Her personality is just as vibrant as her fiery red hair, cropped messily above her shoulders as if she had taken a knife and chopped the locks off herself. There’s Kevin, of course, nine years old and stuck between being one of the young ones and the remaining older, defaultly appointed leaders. His dust-blonde hair, a halfway transition between a lemon-blonde childhood and a brunette adulthood, is flat on his forehead with sweat. He’s skittish, too nervous and scared about everything but won’t allow himself the relief of admitting it.

All their eyes, wide with anxiety and confusion and something else, turn curiously towards the stage when Governor Kodos taps his microphone head with a calloused finger. Its resulting, primitive whine of feedback reaches far and wide, the citizens of Tarsus IV wincing at the sound. 

_“Citizens of Tarsus IV,”_ his aged voice crackles the wall-embedded speakers to life. When Jim looks at him now, his greying hair, the stiff way he holds himself under his superfluous robes, he seems to have aged a thousand years since he saw him months ago on a weekly holo-broadcast, “ _Some of you may be aware of the revolution I have undertaken against the late Governor Myron. The dire circumstances our planet, our_ people _, has found itself in, requires immediate and dire choices to be made. Governor Myron did not find it in her power to lead appropriately, and so I have elected myself to take her office.”_

Revolution? The _late_ Governor Myron? Jim shivers at the revelation of every word, every booming syllable that sizzles through the circuits. Eve must have sensed this too, because she burrows deeper into Jim’s chest. 

“ _The revolution.._ ” Kodos - _Governor_ Kodos- starts, each word weighted now, fitted with lead, as the gathered citizens shift with unease, “ _is successful. But survival depends on drastic measures. Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society. Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the colony._ ”

“ _Jim_ ,” Thomas says warningly, but he doesn’t need to. They all hear it; the steady, condemning hum of activating phasers, the slow, whining build of it in the steadily aggravated room. The soldiers that line the stage raise their weapons, and so do the ones guarding the exits. Jim is suddenly all too aware of their unfortunate position. They’re smack-dab in the middle, standing on tiled marble and not on rotting soil, enveloped by multiple layers of stirring bodies. The grace of the sun seems miles and miles away.

Jim’s grip around Eve turns ironclad, and Thomas hoists little Will into his arms, “Tom, we _have_ to-”

“I know, Jim, I _know_ , but there’s too many people and-”

“ _Therefore I have no alternative but to sentence you to death,_ ” the all-too-stoic man condemns on his dais, away from the sudden scurry of frightened people, the auditory equal of shivers down spines and the cold blanket of dread. Four thousand bodies writhe against the white-armored guards, and the whine of phasers reach a fever pitch. 

“Shit!” Jim curses, and ducks when one of them goes off, hitting an old man standing behind them, who drops dead near his feet. What sounds like a thousand other phasers follow suit, ricochets of the initial shot, and the air is suddenly thick with the scent of burnt flesh and laser smoke. Eve lets out a shriek and cries in his arms. The room howls and stomps and Jim remains crouched, gesturing the others to do the same. “Get down!”

Greta and Kevin immediately comply, and Thomas wrenches Percy down to do the same. Their small faces nearly press against the ground, wet with tears and sweat. Jim motions for them follow, because it’s too loud now to say anything and be heard, and they scurry on the floor with their knees.

“ _Your execution is so ordered_ ,” Kodos’ voice is absolutely catatonic, masked by the fatal screams and cries and begs of his citizens. When Spock catches Jim’s reflection against the polished ceramic tiles, his blue eyes look crazed with fear, “ _signed Kodos, Governor of Tarsus IV_.”

The scene blurs and suddenly Spock is running, no longer in the suffocating confines of the white room, somehow, against all odds, finding a cut in the chicken mesh gates along the back of the encampment just big enough for each little body to squeeze through. Nobody seemed to realize their escape. There were simply too many of them to corral. The bone-chilling shrieks of phaser fire still continue behind them, but with every step they take the murderous whine dulls, and Jim can finally hear the familiar roar of wind again and the way his heart beats too fast in his ears. 

Beyond the encampment is a thick, sprawling forest, made healthy by the lack of human involvement. It connects the town to the kids’ colony, but Jim knows that nothing awaits them there. They’ve already exhausted their food supply just last week. There is only the forest. Jim looks at the faces of his friends; Greta and Kevin’s wet, red-faced ones, still attached to each other by the hands, Eve’s unmoving face tucked into his shoulder, unwilling to look at anything but the darkness she finds in the fabric of his tunic, Percy and Will’s wailing chests as they look desperately up at their brother, who can barely support his own weight with the collateral fire he received to the left side of his face, panting hard and a little bit woozy on his feet but uncomplaining. If only Jim had been faster, jumped in front of the debris or pushed him away or _something_ , because Thomas deserves so much more than _this_ , is so much better than Jim-

And Jim decides that they must survive. They _must_ survive. Even if it would be on mushrooms and berries and pine nuts alone. 

The world blurs again and they’ve set up camp in the depths of the ivy-covered cave. At night it’s too dark to see past your fingers, and some of the kids are afraid of the dark, but there’s nothing Jim can do about it. Lighting a fire would illuminate the cave’s exterior, making them too visible in a planet whose evening is only brightened by moonlight. The only thing he can do is hold them tight, bundled in the blankets and sleeping bags they managed to swipe from their colony’s previous encampment, and shush them when their whimpers get too loud, from fear or hunger or both. 

Each kid has a partner. Jim’s is Eve, who likes to sleep tucked into his arms, face pressed inconsolably into his shirt as if the darkness of proximity is somehow different to the natural darkness of the yawning cave. It is a little more solid, more sure, somehow. There are no evil creatures in Jim’s tight embrace. Greta is partnered with Kevin. She’s being more manageable after this whole incident, making her best attempts at following orders ever since she realized the direness of their current circumstances. Kevin is just eager to help, meek and obedient, and so they balance each other out well. Each one reminding the other to keep themselves in check, to not waste what little food they managed to steal from the town or foraged, to always tell one of the older ones when they need to go on a potty break in the middle of the night. 

Thomas is paired with Percy. There is no more Will. He was the first of them to die. Four years old and just a little too weak against the coldness that seeps into the coming winter months. They had hit a rut with their food supply last month, when they emptied out an abandoned house they found not too far away from their encampment. It was Jim’s fault. They grew too dependent on the dwindling stash they found there. They didn’t care to think of a Plan B once they finished all their rations. And it was just too much to bear for little Will. He went to sleep one day, strangely already tired and too quiet at eight in the evening, and simply never woke up. Thomas awoke with a corpse bundled up in his arms. 

Little Will is now a soft mound of earth to the right of their cave. Jim can still see his gummy smile when he closes his eyes. Can see him now, his ghosting face, against the boundless darkness of the night.

And then, the creeping whine of a phaser shot pierces through the silence.

Jim scrambles upright, his pulse already quickening painfully, thinking about what tracks they left, what mistakes they’ve made, and how he wished they had some form of light in the cave so he could do a quick headcount of the kids. Eve stirs in his arms, and he simply shushes her and wraps her tightly in his blanket. He can already hear Thomas’ rustling beside him, distinct in the way he moves heavily, sharp and rough. Jim reaches out and feels the outline of his arm. Thomas returns the gesture. The both of them never really slept. They ate almost nothing and gave most of the food to the kids, and so cold evenings are for lying awake, trying to ignore the agonizing grumble of their stomachs. 

When they creep towards the moonlight and the ivy-shaped shadows on the ground, carefully quiet as to not wake the other kids, the smell they are greeted with is not of crisp, fresh snow. It is of burnt flesh, so pungent that it feels like acid in his nostrils. Jim glances at Thomas, whose horrified face is illuminated by moonlight but shadowed by the imprint of ivy leaves, and both of them scramble out into the night. Jim’s heart beats erratically in his chest, a wicked, restless thing. And they hear a wail.

“Jim!” Kevin’s distressed voice is somewhere to their right, hidden in the thicket of forest trees, where they all relieve themselves. 

Thomas reacts first, the cold numbing Jim’s limbs, and they dart between and below arching brambles, sharp and prickly to the touch. Kevin shouldn’t be out here in the first place. He didn’t wake up Jim or Thomas, didn’t tell anyone that he was heading out. That was a cardinal rule that none of them dare break. Kevin _knew_ better. They reach the small clearing, enveloped by shrubbery, and when they see Kevin hunched over a small body on the ground, Jim wishes he never left the cave.

“Greta.” Jim sputters out, because the rest of his body doesn’t move, _can’t_ move. There’s a small heap of a little girl on the ground with a head of fiery red hair and the yellow gloves Jim gave her and she isn’t _moving_. 

“What _happened_?” Thomas bites out, advancing menacingly towards Kevin while Jim drops to his knees and crawls to Greta’s side, a sob stuck in the dry walls of his throat. He tastes the salt of his own tears first before he even feels them.

“She said it would be safe- We didn’t want to wake you guys up.” Kevin is practically choking to get his words out, voice laced with guilt and tears, “We heard a noise and we tried to come back through the thicket, because we would be hidden, but someone saw us. Just shot and- and _left_.”

Jim places a shaking hand on Greta’s bony shoulder and delicately turns her over. There is nothing that could have braced him for what he sees; her green eyes, wide open and angled at the waning moon, and a puncture of singed fabric and flesh right in the centre of her chest. The only signs of her death that made her Greta no longer. The killing of the quick. If he looked close enough, he would still be able to see the traces of a smile in the corner of her eyes. There are still snowflakes, unmelted on the strands of her fair eyelashes. Jim wants to gag. 

“They probably thought you had food.” Thomas spits out bitterly, 

“You should have woken us up!” Jim roars, too loud and too remorseful, but he can’t bring himself to think of being careful anymore, “You know the rules!”

“Jim,” Thomas tries to soothe, placing a hand on his shoulder. Jim wrenches away.

“She’s gone.” Jim sobs, curling his hands into the sleeve of her coat. He knows that they would have to scavenge that off of her body. Her gloves and her sleeping bag and her blankets. They would still _smell_ like Greta. He wishes they could just bury it all with her, but resources are scarce and the world is ending day by day. Body by smaller body.

“It’s my fault.” Kevin kneels beside him, his little chest hiccuping, “Jim, it’s my fault.”

In the light of the moon, none of them refutes.

The scene dissolves and Spock finds himself wanting to reach out, to take hold of little Greta’s bony wrist and try to find a pulse. But this is not his memory, and it feels so jarring to remember that fact because everything seems so _real_. Both of them resurface, Jim eerily calm while Spock wrenches his fingers from his psi-points, falling backwards onto hard earth as the echo of a sob rattles in his chest. The meld brings the barely-discernible link that they had from dream sharing and blows out of proportions. Jim’s presence feels like it is in the forefront of his mind instead of tucked somewhere in the back, unseen and unfelt. He feels his tumultuous emotions as if they were his own, now. Bright and scattered and heavy, like lead. 

“Spock?” Jim calls, scrambling forward to help him up, “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I don’t know how much you saw.”

Spock shudders. _Enough_ , he wants to tell him, _too much already_ . But Spock just takes in steady gulps of air while Jim brings him to sit up. “Jim. You _must_ wake up.”

Something turns dark in those blue eyes, and an echo of anger and indignation feeds through their link. A chill sweeps into the cave.

“ _No_.”

“But what of your friends?”

Jim clenches his eyes shut and shakes his head sharply, as if the thought of that pains him. “You saw everything I showed you and you still don’t understand?”

“They need you, Jim. And you must live.” Spock reasons, leaning forward to assure the boy, who just tilts away. “You could die if you do not wake.”

“Spock, please,” Jim digs the heel of his palms into his eyes, pressing down harshly, “I don’t want to wake up. Please don’t make me.”

“You must, Jim.” Spock coaxes, “What of your friends? The younger children?”

“But I’m a kid, too!” Jim sobs, and relents this time when Spock puts a hand on his shoulder, leaning in to the touch. His cries grow louder, “I’m so tired, Spock, you don’t know what it’s like.”

“You have a concussion,” Spock says, but his words might as well mean nothing as Jim shudders, shaking his head, “You will _die_ , Jim.” 

Jim makes an anguished sound and wrenches away from him angrily, dropping his hands from his face, balled into tight fists at his sides. His eyes are ice blue with fury, “Then let me _die_ . I don’t _care_ anymore.” 

Spock’s heart clenches painfully at his side, “Jim-”

“I don’t care.” And then the anger seeps out of his features, seemingly all at once, as the rigidness in his shoulders drop, his face lined with something more truthful. Hopelessness. Defeat. “I don’t, Spock. Let me die.”

Spock shakes his head resolutely, “I will not.”

“There’s nothing left to do. If I wake up I’ll just-” Jim chokes, as if the thought burns, “I’ll die another way. I’ll have to watch the kids die before me.” 

“I will send help, Jim. To Tarsus IV. I will inform the Council and they will come to you. I swear it.”

Jim shakes his head defeatedly, as if this is something he had already contemplated, “You won’t make it in time.”

“You must still try.” Spock urges. This doesn’t sound like the Jim he knows and it _frightens_ him, “You must _live_.”

“Don’t you see that I’ve _tried_ ?” Jim cries, and the ground shakes with his grief. He buries his face in his hands, tears wetting the sleeves of his coat, “I didn’t show you, but Eve died last week.” Spock remembers the quiet little girl with dark hair, clinging onto Jim like nothing else mattered. He shivers, “I didn’t show you because I don’t even _remember_ it. We don’t have any food, at least not enough to keep our brains working properly, for god’s _sake_ . We’ll all die by the end of the week. And it can’t be me or Thomas who goes out first because nobody will take care of Kevin and Percy. But it can’t be Kevin and Percy because they’re so _young_ , and I don’t know what to _do-_ ”

“You have already survived for months, Jim.” Spock reasons, an edge of desperation too evident in his voice, “Keep to what you know. Drink fluids. Continue to forage. The nearest Federation ship must not be far from Tarsus IV. They will likely be able to reach you within the week. You must _try_.”

“Spock. I-” Jim chokes, and Spock leans forward, arms open, because through the link he could sense Jim’s need of assurance, of the invisible weight of his friends’ lives to be lifted from his shoulders, to be the child he never got to be. Spock holds him tight and sees the younger boy’s visions of blue skies and corn fields and chestfulls of laughter, red sand and white trees. He remembers through the link of a joy for living that he does not own. The anger and bravado falls away, and all that is left is the smallest flicker of hope. “I’m scared. I don’t want to..”

The death is unspoken between them, hanging in the air heavily.

“You will not.” Spock promises, whispers into Jim’s matted hair because he can’t bring himself to speak properly, “I will not let you.”

“How?” Jim croaks, burying himself further into Spock’s embrace, “I don’t know how to wake up.”

“I am able to perform a shallow meld that will lead your mind into wakefulness.” Spock says, “It will feel quite… invasive. But it is necessary. Do not fear, I will attempt to block any transference between us when I perform the meld. ”

“It’s okay, Spock.” Jim withdraws, only for his blue eyes to lock onto Spock, a tangible sign of his surety. He squeezes the vulcan’s hand tightly, “I trust you.”

Spock lifts up his arm, the one not caught in Jim’s tight grip, and rests his palm against the younger boy’s face. Already, the link is eager to be re-established, reaching out and seeking and agitated at being severed in the first place. Even with this unestablished contact, the soft pressure of his fingers against Jim’s psi-points, he can already hear his thoughts. They are fast and collide against one another, messy and sporadic. Spock could read them if he wanted to, if he bothered to pick them apart and see where one thought ends and the other starts, but he doesn’t. He lets them buzz beside his own ordered consciousness, and relishes in the way they flow against each other. Coiled. Snug like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. 

“Wait.” Jim protests, putting his hand over the one Spock has on his face, “A year ago. After the thing with the Corvette. You wanted to say something before you woke up.” He smiles, but there’s a deprecating edge to it that Spock doesn’t like, “I think about what you were going to say, like, every single day.”

“I-” Spock says, then halts himself. Jim cocks his head in puzzlement, making him lean into Spock’s touch.

Of course he can remember the echo of his own words. The sure start of a _‘Jim, I must confess-’_ interrupted by the call of the waking world. He was about to tell Jim about T’Pring. About her uninterest in Spock, about how she’s looking for her dream mate. How there are more than a handful of vulcans who had dreamt sometime in their life, met their dream mate, and now dedicate all their time and effort into finding them. How it might not be considered the vulcan way, but it _is_ more common than Spock had thought. And then what was he going to suggest? That they try? That Spock is more lucky than most to have a human dream mate who he can find every night, unlike T’Pring? That Jim is wonderful in a way that scares him?

But the circumstance is convoluted, more complicated than that simple feeling he felt a year ago, a strong and sure thing. It has grown, since then, like a wild plant, now coiled and thick. He wasn’t thinking when he said those words, blinded by the dream that allowed him to have Jim by his side. He hadn’t thought about his kolinahr. Or about how it will hinder his studies, his future work at the Vulcan Science Academy. There is, of course, the added revelation that they are bonded. Yet another complicated concept that Spock himself can’t truly explain. The thought they might be essential to one another, that Spock would be co-dependant, is terrifying. His father had met his mother in his later years, pursuing his t’hy’la bond because of his curiosity for the human mind, but by then he had all the time in the world to truly tend to the bond. Spock doesn’t have that. He’s _sixteen_ and hasn’t even graduated from the Academy.

“Spock?” Jim says, his eyebrows bunched, “I can feel you. You’re thinking too hard.”

“I do not remember.” Spock finally decides on saying, and doesn’t miss the way Jim frowns just the tiniest bit, the tremor of detecting a lie evident in their link.

“Huh, you would think with all that eidetic memory of yours you’d be able to remember at least a _little_ bit of something.” Jim teases, smile lopsided and sad. 

“Jim, there _is_ something I wish to speak to you about.” Spock amends quickly, when he feels an icy draft in their bond. Disappointment. Withdrawal. “Though I wish to discuss it once this is over and you are well, as it is a serious matter.”

“But what if-” Jim hesitates, blue eyes shining. Spock’s heart seizes in his side, “What if I don’t make it?” 

“You will.” Spock says, a little bit too desperately, “We can hold each other against this promise. For me, the conversation. For you, your survival.”

“A little bit of an unfair trade, if you ask me.” Jim laughs, then shakes his head, as if Spock’s illogical logic is something he’s heard a hundred times now. The warmth in their bond comes flooding back. “Yeah, okay, Spock. Just don’t take another four years this time.”

“I am sure that once the Federation comes to your aid your mind will pull against mine. No doubt that it will be an emotional event.” 

“Yeah. Humans are illogical like that.” Jim grins, and keeps his hand on top of Spock’s as he leans his face into Spock’s palm, “Okay. Ready when you are.”

Jim closes his eyes, as if bracing himself for something, and lets out a deep breath. Spock watches his face, the crackling of dried blood beneath his sand-blonde fringe, the fanning of his dark eyelashes against his cheeks. His lips are chapped and bloody, from the cold or dehydration or worse. Spock’s heart squeezes dully. He knows he has wronged the boy many times, pushed him away when he should have held on. But in a lot of ways Spock is a boy, too. And he doesn’t know what he wants. He feels the growing buzz of Jim’s mind against his own, bright and fiery like a stagnant star, waiting for a shred of ignition. It is warm and complex and guiding, like a lighthouse. 

Spock doesn’t know what he wants, but in this sliver of a moment, shrouded by the darkness of a cave light years away, he feels the most grounded he has ever felt. 

“Jim.” Spock says, and the boy’s eyes flutter open at the call of his name. The meld starts to form, coming alive and bridging the space between their minds. Spock feels the currents of Jim’s thoughts more clearly now, loud as if they were words, projected directly into his ear. Fear, trust, warmth. A thousand different things. “Whatever happens, you must know that I..”

“It’s okay, Spock.” Jim squeezes his hand, a wave of understanding seeping into the meld of how difficult it would be to say, to admit despite his vulcan upbringing, “I know.”

“I must say it.” Spock insists anyway, because his heart hurts and his mind is not entirely his own and with the way Jim is looking up at him, the softness in the sea of blue he finds there, he will not risk the endless regret if this is the last time they will see each other. He will not let the words stay stuck in his throat. “I cherish thee.”

Jim smiles, bright like the sun, as the meld flourishes between them. “Took you long enough.”

It is the last thing Spock sees as the meld tightens, takes hold, and they fall into black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY i know it ended in a little bit of a cliffhanger but there's really so much theory building that i want to do that another chapter is needed! but by that time jim will be safe and sound! and i know spock is a little bit emotionally constipated and like indecisive but hey! that's what he's like anyway! but i promise he'll get better!
> 
> tell me what you think about the chapter! took so long to flesh this one out since a lot of it is emotionally taxing. comments and kudos are so appreciated!
> 
> see yall next week!


	5. Chapter 5

It takes approximately twelve point four Terran days for Spock to dream again. 

All the while, he feels Jim in the back of his mind, now more than ever. He is aware of the smallest things; a spike of fear here and a flood of relief there, feeding into his own thoughts so distantly like a faraway echo in a deep cave. It keeps him satisfied, for the time being, to know that Jim is alive and responsive. More importantly, it keeps him from constantly pestering his father for updates on the recovery of the Tarsus IV survivors.

They’re calling it a massacre. They’re calling Governor Kodos an executioner. What remains of the cruel man is a corpse of mutilated, singed flesh. Beyond recognition, is what they are saying. It was what the Federation officers found on the foot of his throne, in that big white room that Spock pseudo-stood in, hypothesized to have been killed by his own guards after a coup. Spock remembers the right side of Thomas’ own singed face, the way his little brothers looked up at him in horror. At times, did they not recognize him, too? It is illogical to harbor such vile hate for a stranger, or to even feel hate at all, but Spock finds himself to be satisfied with the outcome of Governor Kodos’ fate.

James Tiberius Kirk is listed as one of the meager handfuls of survivors. 

Spock feels like he hadn’t been breathing until the reports came out. And while it had been a mildly reassuring thing to see Jim’s name next to the words  _ ‘critical condition’ _ instead of  _ ‘deceased’ _ , the waiting game continued when the dreamspace remained stagnant. At first Spock had thought that he was simply meditating on the wrong hours, when Jim was still awake. But even after he readjusted his schedule to accommodate the terran timezone, the pull never came.

Spock has to admit that while he is anxious to the point of excitement to meet Jim again, he is also very nervous. There is the matter of the conversation that he owes the younger boy. The explanation of the t’hy’la bond, what it entails and their possession of it. The worst thing of all is that he knows Jim would be elated by the discovery of this bond, that this is something that he has wanted since the moment they met nine years ago. A true dream mate. A true bond. To be able to reach each other, feel each other, beyond the restriction of a vulcan’s inability to dream. Because although a secret, tucked away part of Spock harbors the same affection for what they share, there is also the matter of T’Pring’s health.

On the day Spock initiated their first in-dream meld, when he lied beside Jim’s unconscious form to press his fingers onto his psi-points, wrenching his mind out of stagnancy, the t’hy’la bond was triggered. Awoken. In all the years that it has existed invisibly, barely felt in the back of their minds, it is now no longer the same. It is invigorated. It has tasted the saccharine sensation of a meld, and now refuses to be parted. Every waking moment is spent thinking of Jim. Every spare thought turned into the hunger for another meld, in order to ease the distance between them. Suddenly the lightyears that separate their consciousness feels simply unacceptable. He can feel the chasm of it in his mind, gaping and groaning. Like hanging off of a cliff. Like Iowan dust and a crushed Corvette.

With this newly awakened t’hy’la bond, T’Pring suffers immensely. For Spock, it is simply a distraction, an itch to see Jim. For T’Pring, it is a monolithic blockade in the bond she has with Spock. She feels alone in her mind in a way they have never felt since they reached seven years of age, since their bondmate link was established. While it is true that Spock knows virtually nothing about the girl, that they have no relationship, the presence of her in his mind is something that the both of them have grown accustomed to. Something neither can live without if it is not swiftly replaced. It’s the only reason why T’Pring didn’t just sever their bond, or refuse to be bonded in the first place, as she searches for her dream mate. A bondmate was essential.  _ Is _ essential. And while Spock saved Jim’s life that day, he was unknowingly killing another.

“Can we not find another bondmate for T’Pring?” Spock’s mother had asked when both their families were meeting to discuss this predicament. T’Pau, the matriarch of Spock’s clan who came to oversee the discussions, shook her head.

“Their minds are too young. Undeveloped. In the future, perhaps. But to sever a bond now would cause great repercussions to their physical and mental health. Even the possibility of death cannot be ruled out.” T’Pau then turned to look at Spock, who had his eyes trained resolutely to the white tiles of T’Pring’s home, feeling that everything was his fault, “This also applies to your t’hy’la bond with James Kirk.”

“So we can’t break Jim’s bond, and we can’t break T’Pring’s bond..” Amanda shook her head, eyebrows pinched, “What  _ can _ we do?”

A quietness swept the room at the unanswerable question. 

“Tell me, Spock,” T’Pau said serenely, and Spock lifted his face up to meet her wizened eyes, “Does your mind ache for your t'hy'la?”

“Always.” Spock replied, silently avoiding the gaze of anyone else in the room,

“Do you think of little else?”

“Yes.” Spock answered tersely, fists shaking where they’re curled on his lap. Even in this moment, his mind was crying out.  _ Jim, Jim, Jim _ . “My focus has reduced to forty-three percent. My efficiency has decreased to similar levels.”

“You feel that this unsatisfied bond will hinder your studies.” T’Pau derived from the statistics he gave, “There is a reason why, once bonded, t’hy’la couples must be together. Separation weighs on the mind. Though this accidental bonding is presently unheard of, you understand now why t’hy’la bonds are discouraged in childhood. Nevertheless, it is not something to be ashamed of.”

“I will not be further disabilitized.” Spock gritted his teeth against the agony of the pull, “My hybrid status is enough.”

There was something vaguely approving in his father’s eyes, while his mother wilted beside him.

“Very well.” T’Pau nodded, “The bonds cannot be broken. This much is true. However, they can be suppressed. The space in one’s mind is finite. The existence of one bond will interfere with the efficiency of another. However strong the bond of a bondmate can be, it will still be crushed by the great intensity of a t’hy’la bond. They are simply incomparable.”

T’Pau’s gaze on Spock turned severe, and Spock braced himself for what came next, “To make room for your and T'Pring’s bond, you must suppress the presence of James Kirk.”

Spock’s heart is heavy in his side, “How can that be done?”

“You are, of course, aware of mental shields?” T’Pau stated more than asked, and Spock nodded. “Suppression works in a similar fashion, although on a greater scale. It is only used in the rare cases of preserving balance in one’s mind. However, do not take this decision lightly. A t’hy’la bond, once obtained, is something essential to one’s life. Suppression comes with its own debilitating vices. To suppress a t’hy’la bond is its own form of kolinahr.”

“Do you mean that my emotions will be purged?” Spock blurted. There’s a hint of panic there that no one misses.

“Not fully. You will feel some detachment from emotions, but not to the extent of kolinahr. Though it is detachment all the same. There is little precedence of the side effects of t’hy’la repression, but there is one definite outcome.” T’Pau’s face, albeit stoic, looked almost remorseful. “You will not dream, or rather be pulled into them. You will not feel or be influenced by Jim Kirk’s presence in your mind.”

The entire room seemed to be studying Spock’s face in the ensuing seconds, but Spock merely clenched his fists and nodded. Shouldn’t this be a good thing, after all? Wasn’t this all that he wanted as a child? 

“I understand.” He said, flatly.

“Spock, honey, you don’t have to make this decision so quickly-”

“If you will grant me permission,” Spock ignored his mother, because he didn’t know what he would do if he caught sight of the pitiful expression he knew she had on her face, and turned towards T’Pring’s parents, who have both been largely silent in the proceedings of the discussion. “I wish to speak to T’Pring.”

“Of course.” Her father nodded.

And so Spock got up and walked towards her room, leaving silence in his wake. That is where he is now, standing in the middle of a pristine, white room, T’Pring’s frail-looking body tucked into the heaps of blankets on her bed. She looks worse than Spock did- or rather  _ does- _ when he was suffering from the echo of Jim’s starvation. Because at least Spock looks the part, with his sallow skin from the malnutrition and yellowed teeth from bile and the way it looks as though a strong draft could knock him over. T’Pring looks entirely healthy. It is her eyes that look faraway, her gaze piercing through him and beyond.

“T’Pring.” Spock steps forward when she motions him closer, standing by her bedside instead of the foot of her bed,

“Spock.” T’Pring does not look at him. Instead she looks down at her shaking hands, pale like the rest of her. Her forehead is beaded with sweat. “Has the discussion ended?”

Spock nods tightly, “Affirmative.”

“Did it end conclusively?”

“I believe so.” Spock fixes his posture, stands straighter before he delivers the news, “Lady T’Pau stated that neither bonds can be broken, lest we suffer dire mental and physical distress. However she believes that by repressing Jim Kirk’s presence in my mind, it will make room for our bond. Everything will return to normal.”

T’Pring hums, as if not believing anything he just said, “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Spock lets out a breath of annoyance as her blank eyes skim over his face, something knowing in that otherwise dead stare, “What will be the repercussion?”

“The repression of a t’hy’la bond will result in a slight purge of my emotions.” Spock begrudgingly explains. His heart feels infinitely heavier now, because once the words leave his mouth, he feels the impending weight of the situation grow, solidifying into truth. “My ability to be pulled into his dreams will also cease once this repression is in place. I will no longer detect his presence in my mind.”

Silence befalls the room. Spock doesn’t look up to observe T’Pring’s face. He knows what he will find. Incredulity. Disbelief. Of course, for someone who has spent her entire life looking for this elusive Stonn, she would not understand why Spock would ever allow such separation between him and his t’hy’la. She has always been more emotive than the average vulcan, and he remembers even now how it felt strange to see such feeling paint those pointed brows when they first met.

Spock ruminates on his own words instead. To not feel Jim’s presence in his mind is something he cannot fathom. While he remembers a time before the t’hy’la bond was awoken, this crazed, primal need to be by Jim’s side, before his thoughts are muddled and pulled away from him, he does not remember what it felt like before its initial conception. In a way, Spock knows it has always been there, ever since he was four years old and Jim was a baby, the first time they truly met. He knew that something shifted in a way that was monumental, but discreet. That his mind worked in a different way since then. That he was influenced by Jim’s thoughts and feelings, however distant they were. That Jim’s presence was something inescapable, like he was there right beside him his entire life. All this time, he dismissed it as a basic dream mate bond, something that was simply a given. To have that taken away from him would feel like the loss of a limb. 

Spock shakes his head. No, nothing is being taken away from him. It is  _ he _ who is giving it up. And the thought of that makes him sick.

“And what have you chosen to do?” T’Pring still asks, as if the answer was not obvious.

“What is logical.” Spock states, and at the mock-confused tilt of T’Pring’s head, he sighs, “I will go forth with the repression.”

She nods. “Fascinating.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, “Are you implying that you would have done differently?”

“Spock,” T’Pring says sweetly, her eyes still looking forward at something that is not there. Or perhaps it is just Spock who is ailed with blindness, as a lot of things seem to escape him these past few days. “If our positions were reversed, if I had found my dream mate and necessitated a bond, the only acceptable outcome would be clear.” She looks at him now, eyes blank and dark. “I would let you die.”

Spock swallows. Why does this girl strike such unease in him? “Even though it is illogical?”

“I have learned that logic is subjective. It is clear that my logic differs from yours, but who are you to say that your truth is correct and mine wrong?” T’Pring states matter-of-factly, “Nevertheless, I am gratified that you chose to spare me.”

Spock looks away. Did he? Or did he just feel, in the essence of all his teachings, that it is simply what he is meant to do? Would he have chosen differently if he were raised with the teachings his mother grew up on instead of his father’s? If he were fully human? Spock shook his head. Fictive imaginings are illogical. Moreover, this situation would have been avoided entirely if he was psi-null. If he was not vulcan at all.

“Will you grant me one last dream with Jim before I repress our bond?” Spock asks, and hates the hope shining through his tone, all too bright and warm and so much like.. Spock ceased that thought before it could finish.

“Spock, I am no monster.” T’Pring scoffs. Spock flinches. He’s never heard a vulcan scoff before, “After all, my fate is in your hands.”

Spock nods tightly, and raises his hand in a ta’al, “Live long and prosper, T’Pring.”

T’Pring’s lips quirk into a smile, and returns the motion. “Peace and long life.”

When he emerges from the room, all the adults cease their conversation. There is a lull in the air. Their heads had been bowed together conspiratorially, and they straightened their spines as if they had been that way the entire time. They look up at Spock’s ramrod stance, the way his eyes skitter and his hands purposefully fixed behind his back. He fights the urge to clear his throat, to look away from his mother’s concerned eyes, before speaking.

“T’Pring has granted me one last visit with Jim Kirk, to explain the situation.” Spock says, but the real reason,  _ to say goodbye, _ is unvoiced, “I do not know when that will be, since being pulled into his dreams is not something I control. However, I will perform the suppression immediately after.”

“How long will our T’Pring have to suffer before this pull comes?” T’Pring’s mother asks, eyes void of remorse. His own mother opens her mouth to say something, the telltale signs of her aggravation for the whole situation evident in the rigid lines of her shoulders, before T’Pau lifts her hand.

“You will be granted two terran weeks.” T’Pau states with finality. At the signs of protest from T’Pring’s parents, she looks at them pointedly, “T’Pring will survive fourteen days. You must be grateful that Spock is willing to be parted from such a sacred bond to save your child. You must grant him this.” She says, and the room goes quiet once more.

_ Willing? _ Spock clutches his own wrist behind his back, so tightly that he feels his pulse jackhammering against his palm, so tightly that he shakes. That is one way to put it.

And so the days progress with much unease and anticipation. His mother fusses over him, all sad eyes and coaxing hands and kisses on brows. There is also a shift in his father’s mannerisms. He shows considerable tolerance for Spock’s emotional slips, something Spock isn’t sure would happen had he not made the logical choice regarding the suppression of his t’hy’la bond. Although Spock knew that his father stated that severing a t’hy’la bond is an evil act, one he would never force Spock to commit, he isn’t sure if that sentiment extended to the possibility of Spock choosing that for himself. Although suppression is different from severing, it can be argued that the damage is comparable. The end result, the most important ultimatum, of both actions would be the same: Jim would disappear from Spock’s life.

One day after the initial rescue turned into two, and then three, and Spock is just about to ask his father about Jim’s recovering state until on the fourth day, on one of his daily afternoon meditations, Spock feels the familiar brush of Jim’s mind against his, and he grasps onto that warm, bright wisp until it takes him with it and he’s falling deeper and-

“Well if it isn’t the man of my dreams!”

Spock opens his eyes to a sprawling field of corn stalks, tall and proud against the timid-by-comparison Iowan sun, leaves brushing against his hip like sentient creatures, guided by the push of the wind. Jim stands on a narrow, paved path between the crops. He already looks much better than the last time Spock saw him. No more crusted blood on his forehead. No more dullness in his eyes. Spock swallows against the lump in his throat as Jim walks towards him, blonde hair blowing in the same direction as the corn stalks, and just as gold as its tips. He nearly flinches as Jim takes his hands. There is a reason why Spock both wished and loathed for this day to come. It is the beginning of the end.

“You’re finally here!” Jim says gleefully, “I thought I wasn’t, like, feeling enough or something. But I guess something just has to happen for me to see you, huh?”

Spock furrowed his brows, “Did something, in fact, happen?”

“Yeah, but not anything bad for once! Come on! I wanna show you something.” Jim uses the older boy's hand he already has in his grip to tug him along the corn fields, towards the brilliant glare of the setting sun, “Thomas woke up today. He was in pretty bad shape when they found us. Kevin was the one they found first ‘cause he was helping me forage.”

There’s a painful twinge of something in the link, an errant reminder of grief that shouldn’t have been there, rearing its ugly head. A bitter recollection. Spock catches the tail end of loss, the startling resurfacing of something cold and dark. Of death.

Spock shivers. Percy did not survive.

“I grieve with thee, Jim.” Spock mumbles, and Jim wavers on his feet for a moment before continuing their heavy trudge amongst the corn stalks and the wind that pushes the leaves onto their bodies. Spock wishes Jim’s face wasn’t turned away. He just looks at the sun like it doesn’t blind him.

“Yeah, about that.” Jim starts hesitantly, “How come I can… feel you? If that’s even the right word for it. Like, in real life. Outside of my dreams.”

Spock tries his best not to let the surprise show on his face, “How much do you feel?”

“I dunno. It only started after I woke up, though. Mostly I just know when you’re upset. And you’ve been upset a lot.” Jim looks back at him for a fleeting moment, but it’s enough for Spock to catch sight of the sly grin on his face, “You worried about me or something?”

“I always worry for you, Jim.” Spock says, voice heavy with distraction.

Jim must feel this in the link, because he halts and turns around to look at him properly, eyebrows pinched, “Hey, is there something else going on?”

Spock shakes his head, maybe a little bit too quickly, before he says, “What do you wish to show me?”

Jim just looks at him warily and plasters on a slanted smile, tugging his wrist, “Come on. We’re not that far away.”

And so they walk, but the visage merely repeats itself before them. Acres and acres of fields, golden grainy ears of corn so ripe that they puff, weighed down on their stalks with the whistling wind. The warmth of the orange sunlight nips at the front of their faces while the breeze shoulders their backs, one pulling and the other guiding. Spock is just about to ask Jim what they’re supposed to be seeing, because this sea of golden harvest seems to extend for miles.

And then it doesn’t.

There, a bit too distant to be anything other than a black sliver in the horizon, is a crack in the ground. Its darkness is stark, haloed by the gold of corn and sunshine, and Jim tugs him along. Towards it. The darkness grows and gapes and bares its jaw with every step they take. Until they get close enough. Until Spock is standing right in front of it, and it is not a crack but an abyss.

Spock nearly lets out a shout of surprise when the corn fields come to an abrupt stop. Just a few feet in front of him, is a chilling, vertical drop. Too sudden to detect from the distance. Like someone had taken a hot knife and neatly sliced through this portion of the land, removing it and keeping it elsewhere. Spock doesn’t even see any sort of ground beyond it, just a sea of clouds that wreath the setting sun, anglical in the way they maintain a golden swirl. It almost appears liquid, if one were to squint. Like Spock could fall, and land in a bath of ichor. But there is still darkness. Light can play tricks, but distance can’t. The drop is bottomless, and black greets them where the clouds don’t touch the cliffside. It is entrancing. As beautiful as it is terrifying.

“What is this place?” Spock asks, too mystified by the view to realize that Jim is standing too close to the edge,

“I like to call it the end of the world.” 

Jim lowers himself on the ground and lets his feet dangle over the bottomless edge. At Spock’s look of horror, he rolls his eyes and pats the dirt beside him.

“It’s not dangerous.” Jim says, as if it’s obvious. Once Spock has settled tentatively beside him, legs folded underneath him instead of whacking against the cliffside like Jim, he continues, “The corn fields exist in real life, but not this part of it. I just found this place when I got so bored one night that I walked and walked and walked.”

“What is it?” Spock asks again, because  _ ‘the end of the world’ _ doesn’t seem like an adequate descriptor.

“I don’t know.” Jim replies, shrugging and swinging his legs, “Heaven?” And he looks down, at the darkness, “Hell? The edge that goes on forever?”

“Very primitive religious observations.” Spock mumbles,

Jim laughs bodily and scoots closer, making Spock wince with worry at every movement he makes, fearing he would scoot himself off the cliff, “It’s much scarier at night, trust me. It’s like nothing’s there at all.”

“And what do you do here?” 

Jim shrugs again, “Sit and think. And think some more. When I wanna wake up I just jump.”

Spock narrows his eyes disapprovingly, “Jim, that cannot be a safe thing to do.”

“Works every time, though.” Jim laughs, and when the chime of it dies in his throat, he looks at the sea of swirling clouds wistfully, “Every time, I think I’m gonna hit something on the way down. Like I might feel the bottom and find out what this place is. But it always only lasts a few seconds before I wake up. Barely can feel the wind on my face.”

Spock fidgets with his hands, folded tightly on his lap. The sinking feeling in his chest grows. He knows what he must do. It is time. How long does he have until they wake up? Until there is no more time to say proper goodbyes? But when he looks at Jim’s face, golden hair laureled with golden sunlight and golden skin, Spock’s thoughts escape him every time.

How do you say goodbye to your soulmate, anyway?

So he looks away, forces himself to peer into the darkness below, and says, “Jim, I must tell you something.”

“Is this the  _ ‘conversation’ _ you owe me?” Jim teases, but there’s a hint of unease in his tone, “Because you don’t sound too enthusiastic about it and I thought it was supposed to be good news or something.”

“In a sense.” Spock hedges. Jim turns to look at him quizzically. “Jim, whatever I will tell you, please know that I do not wish to hurt you. I care for you very deeply.”

“Okay, Spock, now you’re starting to make me worry.” Jim laughs nervously. There’s a rising feeling in Spock’s throat that suffocates him. 

Spock shuts his eyes, and takes a breath, “I do not wish for you to be upset.”

“This is obviously something very important to you, so I’ll take whatever you need to tell me, Spock.” Jim’s eyes turn soft. He reaches over to squeeze his hand, “I can’t be upset at you for something like that.”

But he should be. Because  _ Spock _ chose this. He chose being a vulcan over being  _ Jim’s _ , whatever that meant, because they’re still so young and Spock doesn’t know what he needs or wants and all the fundamentals of the universe seem to shift wherever the younger boy is concerned. Jim feels like a black hole, endless and magnificent and so, very powerful. He wants to let himself be pulled into his inescapable mess, but he’s also so afraid of what that means. 

Spock lets a comfortable silence blanket over them. He lifts their joined hands, where Jim has not pulled away from trying to reassure him. Through the contact, Spock feels the waves of curiosity and concern. All of which he does not deserve.

“Jim.” He starts, “Do you remember what I explained to you of t’hy’la bonds?”

Jim cocks his head curiously at him, “Yeah.”

Spock concentrates on the bridge that connects their minds, strong and strained with purpose. It is even more insistent now that their hands are joined. He feels the presence of Jim glow, brightening every dark corner of his mind. This is the way they are supposed to be.

“We are bonded, Jim.”

Jim drops his hand, “What?” And Spock can’t even meet his eyes, can’t even look up from his lap, where he has retracted his hand. He cradles it to his chest, “But you said that you were already- that we needed to-”

“Yes, I am aware of what I thought to be true.” Spock bites out,

“So how did this happen?” Jim’s voice is surprised, for the most part, but also… optimistic. A hint of hope that he doesn’t show, that Spock would not have known about, if he didn’t have access to the nuances of Jim’s thoughts. He feels a ripple of warm wind cut through the field.

“I do not know.” Spock says, “My family speculates that it is by virtue of my hybrid status that my telepathic powers are enhanced. As you know, t’hy’la bonds require physical contact. But we necessitated one without it. It appears that we have always had it… in a way.”

“And you knew the whole time? Since when?” Then something seems to dawn onto Jim, because suddenly he snaps, rising from his seat next to Spock, staggering on his way up. Spock’s arms shoot out to catch him, to shield him from the abyss, but Jim waves him away. “You knew but you acted like- like we’re  _ nothing _ . Like we could never  _ be _ anything. Like this-” he gestures wildly between them, “-doesn’t mean  _ anything _ .”

Jim stands over Spock, accusatory in all his actions, as if daring Spock to meet his eyes. But the older boy doesn’t-  _ can’t _ . And as the seconds tick by, his inaction makes it all the worse. He feels the red-hot flare of anger in their shared link. The wind picks up. Spock knows that if he were to reach out to the link, to calm him, he would feel it snap back. Hurt and angered. Like a wounded animal.

“Is it because you… don’t want it?”

Spock looks up immediately and shakes his head, “Jim, I was not aware of the existence of our bond. You must believe me.” His voice is weak with desperation, “This… connection I share with you. I did not think much of it as I assumed that every telepath with a dream mate shared the same experience. The way we share a piece of one another, how our minds gravitate towards each other. Dream mate bonds, and emotions in general, are not something openly discussed in vulcan society. I did not know what was considered normal. But once I was enlightened, I realized.

“I do not remember a time when we were not a part of each other.” Spock forces himself to look into Jim’s eyes, whose blue shine is already looking back at him. The anger has disappeared. Replaced with something softer. “And it is not that I do not want it. I thought I could never  _ have _ it.”

“So… is this a good thing?” And there it is again. The small fluttering of hope. A weak, tired thing. 

Spock’s eyes drop once more. This is it. 

“When I melded with you in Tarsus IV to bring you back to consciousness, and again when you shared your memories with me, something shifted in our bond.” Spock forces the words out through gritted teeth, because he knows if he stops, he might never continue, “It was weak, before, because it was accidental. Made without intent. But now, because we initiated in a meld, it flares. You have experienced the effects of this.”

“You mean that’s why I can feel your emotions?” Jim sits down beside him again, body angled towards Spock. The vulcan nods. Jim’s eyebrows pinch. “And… what do  _ you _ experience from this?”

“Physical separation from one’s t’hy’la after the necessitation of the bond is mentally straining for telepaths.” Spock takes a deep breath, “I am incapable of… functioning adequately. I cannot concentrate on anything. I feel the need to be with you, and it trumps every other thought. It is all-consuming.” There is a small silence. Through the link, Spock can feel Jim reaching out, perhaps even extending his hand in the dream, tentative but reassuring. Hope, again, in its purest form. Spock barrels on before he feels the hand on his shoulder, because if he does, Spock might just let Jim believe whatever he wants, “There is also the matter of my current bondmate. She suffers from a mental block from my mind as a result of our newly awakened bond. Vulcans require a bondmate because of our telepathic nature. She will die if this block is not amended immediately.”

Jim’s mind stops reaching out. His hand drops in midair.

“So you want to break it.” Jim’s tone is curt. No more hope. Spock knows he has killed the last of that.

He shakes his head, “No, Jim. Breaking a t’hy’la bond will drive a vulcan mad. I also cannot break my bond with T’Pring without risking severe mental and physical damage to each other.” Spock feels his chest burn, “However, there is one solution.”

Jim leans back on his palms, looking down at the dirt. Sitting like that, with his dust-blonde hair flopped forward, Spock cannot see his eyes. And perhaps he is grateful for it.

“And I’m not gonna like it.”

“An immediate suppression of our bond must be performed.” Spock starts out delicately, “But this will cause certain effects to take place.”

Jim sighs. Too heavily for a boy his age. “Just lay it on me, Spock.”

“I will undergo a slight purging of my emotions. This will likely mean I will be more…” Spock struggles to find a word, “More vulcan.” And now this. The most crucial part. The end. “I will also no longer be able to get pulled into your dreams. Indefinitely.”

There’s a silence that stretches on too long.

“Jim?” Spock calls tentatively, already bracing himself since the moment he let the condemning words spill. He chances a look up at Jim’s unnaturally still figure, still leaned back on his palms. The wind blows. Cold, this time. Like a whip to the back of his neck. It brushes Jim’s fringe out of his eyes, and Spock can see too clearly the prickle of tears that shine on their edges.

Jim laughs bitterly, but it is closely followed by a sniffle, “I mean, I always knew this day would come, y’know? What with your whole  _ kolinahr _ thing you told me you would do sooner or later.” Jim’s voice crumbles, but just barely. Like he’s holding something in. Like he’s trying to prove something to himself. “Whenever I dream with you I always think it’s going to be the last time, so why should this be any different, now that it’s actually true?”

Spock’s throat tightens, “Jim.” 

“I know you just want to save her. I probably would have done the same thing, I think.” Jim brings up an arm and rubs his face on his sleeve. His voice is too quiet. Too… unemotional, despite his actions. “You’re doing the right thing, Spock. Okay? You’re doing the right thing.”

“Forgive me, Jim.” Spock all but whispers,

Jim shakes his head, and closes his eyes, “There’s nothing to forgive.”

There’s a shudder in their link, something frail and grieving, and Spock’s heart shivers with it. This is not what Jim usually feels like, not his usual warmth and light and goodness. And Spock has tarnished that. Has no right to expect that from him any longer. Still, he shifts closer towards him, across the little space of dust and dirt that separates them. Jim opens his eyes at the sound, and silently accepts Spock’s hand when he offers it.

Spock pushes sorrow and guilt, affection and trust, and it both soothes Jim’s mind and worries it. Still, he returns the sentiment, albeit accompanied with an underlying coldness of mourning for something they have not lost. Not yet, at least. It is a filter applied to every thought, as if it plagues him. Spock simply holds onto him tighter, attempting to shield him from the ghost of the near future, that looms over their heads like a gruesome reminder. He cannot fathom how it feels infinitely right to communicate in this way. Wordless and boundless. Ebbing thoughts that have no distinct form, that branch and connect, everything colored in Jim’s golden katra.

“I wish to show you something. One last time.” Spock finally says, and once the words are spoken into the air and breaks the silence, the odd serenity of the moment is gone, “The day we first met.”

Jim laughs, throat still a bit clogged, “I still remember that, Spock.”

“No. You do not.” Spock shakes his head, “I am referring to our first true encounter. You were thirteen months old. I was four.”

Jim looks up at him with wet lashes, “You still remember?”

“Vulcans possess eidetic memory. You are well aware of this, Jim.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jim mulls it over for a few seconds. Then he sniffles. Shrugs, “Okay sure. Fine.”

“You are certain?” Spock asks,

Jim nods, and gives him the smallest of smiles, “I mean, if this is all going to end, might as well see how it started, right?”

Spock looks down at their joined hands. He does not answer.

He closes his eyes, letting go of Jim’s hand, and lets the scenery morph into the one he sees in his head. Red sand. White trees. Tall, arching branches. Spock opens his eyes and both he and Jim are standing, no longer facing the fall of the cliff, the end of the world, and its golden sun. He opens his eyes instead to the beginning. Cloudless skies. One little figure sitting underneath the shade of a tree.

“That’s you?” Jim asks in wonderment once the memory begins, the wind starting to sing its merry whistle and the trees beginning to shake. A small vulcan looks down at his tiny hands, as if not believing that they were there. His eyes are shaded by overgrown -but still impeccably straight- bangs, “You were so…”

“Small?” Spock offers, and Jim just laughs, “Jim, you are aware that growth is a given with the passage of time.”

“I was gonna say cute, Spock, but I guess that works too.” Jim smiles, conceding.

Little Spock seems content in sitting under the shade of the birch-like tree while rubbing the fabric of his clothes between his tiny fingers, as if to make sure its material felt the same way it did in real life, and letting his hand skim over the chubby curves of his face, checking every detail. He does this with the straps of his sandals, too. And the sand beneath his robes. Then, after he is satisfied with whatever he discovered while doing all of this, Little Spock brushes the hair out of his face and hauls himself up.

“Your hair was a little… long, wasn’t it?” Jim teases knowingly, lips slanting in the tell-tale way it does when he’s implying something Spock doesn’t like.

“I did not enjoy the ritual of cutting one’s hair at this age.” Spock admits, purposefully holding his gaze on his younger self instead of Jim’s grinning face. Little Spock stumbles over the stump of a rooted rock, hidden under sand, and falls on his face quite unceremoniously. Spock grimaces. “It was illogical.”

“Don’t worry, Spock.” Jim drawls, smug laughter hidden behind the tilt of his mouth. Spock is grateful to be able to hear that cheerful sound again, even if it is at his expense. “I didn’t like haircuts either.”

The memory continues like this for some moments. Little Spock navigates through the landscape, wandering around the red backyard of his own house, amidst the terran succulents he finds there, like he has never seen them in his life. He takes great importance in studying each one of the little plants, as if making sure that each leaf is the correct shade of green, before he moves on to the next one. 

“What are you doing?” Jim asks, where they are standing side by side, far away from the house,

“I seem to be testing the accuracy of my memory. It is my very first dream.” Spock recalls as he watches his past self trace the grooves of a purple vulcan plant, “Very determinedly.”

“Sounds like something you would do.” Jim hums in agreement,

And then, the piercing sound of wails. It’s so abrupt and shrill that it makes Jim jump. Little Spock’s head rises abruptly from where it was buried in a bramble of blue bushes, and pushes himself up on his feet. Jim could almost see his ears twitch from where he’s standing, the way his head is cocked to the side like some sort of pointy-eared predator, listening for the source of disturbance. It doesn’t take long for him to spot the cluster of terran trees, brown and green like spruce, materializing on the far end of the red sand adjacent to his house. 

“Hey,” Jim squints, watching as Little Spock makes his way towards the cluster of trees, and the crying that comes from within it, “Those trees and those flowers-” he points to the yellow buds amidst tall grass, peeking out from bowed stalks, “-they look a lot like a painting my mom used to have.”

Spock looks at Jim’s slowly smiling face. A quiet smile, like he’s sharing a secret with himself, “What is amusing to you?”

Jim looks up at Spock and laughs, “She used to hang it above my crib.” 

“Fascinating.” Spock says, as he gets dragged by the wrist towards the small forest.

They follow a trodden path of brown, terran dirt, keeping closely behind Little Spock’s tentatively advancing figure. Each step brings them closer to the crying, farther from red sands and into lush green grass. The forest continues on about four trees deep before they see him.

There, toddling and red-faced in grass as tall as his chubby legs, is a crying Jim. He looks feverishly around, but at the sight of no other person but himself, his cries turn louder. Little fists raise themselves to his wet eyes, thick blonde hair already long enough to flop over his forehead. Little Spock steps out from behind a tree, towards him.

“Who are you?” Little Spock asks, as if expecting an answer. Little Jim stops his crying momentarily and turns at the sound, only to blink his wide blue eyes once, twice, before crying once more.

Spock marches over to the younger boy, his face openly distressed at the loudness of the sound, and at the overwhelming display of emotional turmoil. He seems to want to help, his chubby hands reaching out.

“I was terrified of hurting you.” Spock explains as he watches his younger counterpart circle Jim nervously when the younger boy plops down on the grass, utterly inconsolable. “It was the first time I had ever seen anyone younger than me.”

“What is causing you such distress?” Little Spock crouches down to meet Jim’s eyes, who stares curiously at Spock through tears and hiccups, “You do not have my ears. You are human. Is that why you cry so loudly?”

“Well, to your credit, you look like you’re a lot of help.” Jim snorts sarcastically, as the younger him bursts into louder sobs at Spock’s questions. 

Little Spock cringes at the increase in volume and leans back on his haunches. It takes him a few seconds to recollect himself, brown eyes skittering nervously, before he stretches out one chubby hand to press it against Jim’s forehead.

“Peace.” He whispers, and almost instantaneously, Jim’s cries peter out into silence, the crumples of his face smoothening.

Something shoots through the earth beneath them, casting a gentle hum beneath their feet. Little unrooted pebbles shake with the constance of it, almost floating with the way they vibrate. The two children pay no mind to the movements. In fact, it looks as though they don’t notice it at all, wide blue eyes locked onto brown ones, both equally stunned and enraptured by something that is happening within themselves.

“What’s going on?” Jim exclaims hurriedly, returning to Spock’s side from where he started to peel off in order to take a closer look at their counterparts.

“I do not know.” Spock replies, the panicked confusion clear in his voice. He did not remember this happening, the way dirt rose from the ground and the fronds of cedar branches shook. He keeps his eyes on their younger selves, who remain utterly clueless of their surroundings, slow-blinking eyes and cocked heads. 

The tremors seem to pass underneath them, reaching a defining crest as the shakes turn almost violent, threatening to throw them off their feet, before the wave of it recedes entirely. Like they were riding out the movements of a creature that slinked by below them, there and gone.

As if snapped by the unfreezing of time, Little Jim breaks out into a wide, few-toothed grin as soon as the earth settles. Little Spock retracts his hand from his temple, but Jim chases his fingers with chubby fists. 

“‘Pock!” Jim cries happily, waving his arms up and down the way babies do, as if emphasizing a point, “‘Pock! ‘Pock!”

“How did I-” The Jim beside him questions, stepping away from Spock to approach their counterparts. He looks back at the vulcan for a moment, lips parted in shock and confusion. “Was that-”

“It must have been.” Spock follows him as he crouches down beside the two, leaning back on his haunches as Little Spock leans into Little Jim’s touch, the way his tiny fingers curl around his palm. It is mildly disconcerting to watch himself in third person like this- to see the flurry of emotions reflected in too-familiar brown eyes. It seems that he has always been too human around Jim, ever since the very start. “I do not remember the tremor- or anything happening at all. But it  _ must _ be.”

“This is when we bonded.” Jim whispers, more to himself than anybody else, with a hint of awe to his voice that reminds Spock of a younger version of Jim, clutching at his robes in the middle of a red desert.

They watch as Little Spock brushes away the small wells of tears below Little Jim’s eyes, how the latter giggles at the fluttering touch and uses his grip on Spock’s other hand to pull himself up and grab at the vulcan’s ears.

“That is not polite.” Little Spock remarks, flushing green. Jim merely giggles once more and plants his hands into Spock’s hair.

“I never knew.” Spock turns to Jim, who continues to watch their younger counterparts with a wide grin. “Jim, you must know I was telling the truth. I never knew we had necessitated a bond.”

Jim looks at him, his grin replaced with an understanding smile. He seems younger like this, legs folded underneath him and his cheeks flushed, surrounded by greenery. This is what he must look like on Earth. In his element. “Don’t worry, Spock. I believe you.”

Something tugs at Spock. He feels the ghost of a shake on his shoulder, pointed and firm. Suddenly, he doesn't feel the sturdiness of the earth beneath his feet, the uneasiness of the wind. Little Jim’s laughter begins to echo in his ears, staggered and distant, like he is miles away. He looks down at his hands and finds them translucent. Fading.

“Someone is waking me.” Spock says hurriedly. He looks up sharply at Jim, only to find his fear being mirrored back at him with blue eyes.

“No.” Jim scrambles at once, dragging his body up on his knees so he is right beside Spock. He takes his hands, and for a moment Spock’s heart stops beating. “ _ No _ . Not yet. It hasn’t even been that long.”

“I cannot do anything to stop it.” Spock nearly cries as Jim’s voice begins to sound thinner, “I wish we had more time.”

“I haven’t even said goodbye.” Jim’s eyes are welling with tears, “Please don’t forget about me.”

“I could never.” Spock assures. The sounds of the waking world start to become more clear to him now. He hears the concerned tones of his mother, his father at her side. He tries to shake off that sensation. “Jim, I-”

“I know it’s stupid or illogical or whatever.” Jim persists. The grip he has on Spock’s hands are tight now, almost painful. His cheeks are wet with tears. “But please, just tell me. If this was all different, if you- if you could stay. With me.”  _ Stay mine _ , are the words that are not said. It echoes in the bond. Spock hears it clear as day. “Would you?”

“Always.” Spock leans his forehead against Jim’s. His warmth is there, but fleeting. Like sunshine under the shade of a tree. Like a dream. “I will always be with you, Jim. I have been, and always shall be, your friend.”

Jim smiles a watery smile, shaky but genuine. His laugh sounds more like a croak. He throws his arms around Spock in an embrace, tight and desperate. Spock could barely feel the weight of his head on his shoulder, could only feel the slow, heaving creak of the bond that showers them with a flurry of emotions, as if knowing that this will be the last time they will dream together, and is trying desperately to give them a lifetime’s worth of each other’s presence.

Then slowly, as if they have all the time in the world, Jim tilts his head up and plants a chaste kiss on Spock’s cheek. The soft flutter of his lips is there and gone. Spock barely feels it. It is perfect either way. 

“Bye, Spock.” Jim’s voice is small, “T’hy’la.”

Spock wants to tell him a million things. If only there was one word profound enough to say it all.

“Goodbye, Jim.” He whispers back. He looks at Jim’s too-blue eyes, feels the grip of his warm hands, and tells himself to let go.

Spock wakes. He sees his parents’ blurry figures, fussing over him, his father demanding an explanation to the tears on his cheeks, to the way his hands shake as though it has lost an anchor, as though they were searching for something to hold. Their voices merge and echo uselessly in his head. He can’t tell where one word ends and the other starts.

Spock wakes. But it feels as though he has been put into a horrible dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i ended chapter 4 on a cliffhanger, said "see y'all next week" and then fucked off for almost four months??? that's totally my bad sorry.
> 
> but in all seriousness i've been going through a really tough time lately. i still am. i feel like my life's been turned upside down in the most horrible way possible and i'm still trying to sort myself out, force myself to live through it and come out the other end. i love this fic with all my heart and i know exactly how i want to end it. i know that i want to finish it. but right now every time i open the doc all i can think about is how my life was so much better back when i was still piecing together chapter 1, as pathetic as that sounds. so i guess what i'm saying is i don't really know what to do with myself right now and i'm trying to make this fic my form of escapism again, but it's gonna take some time. anyway please just know that i'm still going to finish this, it's just that the updates are gonna come slower. we're already near the end anyway. it's just the home stretch now. but i just want you guys to know that i'm still here. and i read each and every one of your comments again and again when i'm going through a tough time. they always cheer me up. so thank you for sticking with me this far. i'm planning on being better about replying to comments now that my updates are gonna be more spaced out because i want to distract myself, and i want to interact with you guys. please be safe. i know these are tough times for all of us, so if anyone wants someone to talk to my tumblr inbox is always open (@klauzoleum). i love you all and i hope you'll continue to be patient with me.


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